


Five Times Aziraphale Saves Crowley (And One Time He Fails)

by Captain_Kieren



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst, Asexual Characters, Asexual Relationship, Asthma, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Blood, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump, Cute boys, Demons, Exorcisms, First Aid, First Kiss, Five Plus One, Flirting, Fluff, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Holy Water, Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Knuckle kiss, M/M, Minotaur - Freeform, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Rescue, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Temporary Character Death, Whump, Wings, a couple of complete dumbasses, but i love them anyway, demonic asthma, exorcised, honestly theyre so dumb, hurt aziraphale, just a pair of sweethearts really, literally just constant flirting, sick crowley, stabbed, the ultimate slow burn really if you think about it, thrown, two dumbasses in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-04-08 09:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Kieren/pseuds/Captain_Kieren
Summary: Basically what it says on the tin.1. Holy Water2. Exorcised3. Thrown4. Stabbed5. Demon Hunter+1. Betrayed





	1. Holy Water

LONDON, 12 YEARS BEFORE THE END OF THE WORLD

* * *

 

Unrest is stirring in the shadows of London. Although he doesn’t know it, this will be the last ordinary year of Crowley’s life for quite a long time. And things are going swimmingly, as per the us’.

            The demon known as Crowley parks his vintage Bentley in a narrow alley between a closed-up shop and a row of townhouses, all darkened for the night. A cold rain pours over him as he steps onto the cobblestone, and he turns up his collar. The air smells crisp, like a storm, but there’s something else too – rot and deceit. He smiles pleasantly.

            “Kiggdas!” he greets, just now making out the other demon’s shadowy form through the fog. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

            The withered, old demon steps closer so Crowley can see the crimson glow of his eyes through the dark. “I assume you received my message, Crowley?” he says in a growling voice. Kiggdas is quite a disgusting, old thing – too ugly even too disguise himself among humans. He very rarely ever leaves Hell, and only for special occasions. The last time he came topside was World War II. To save Hitler’s life from an assassination attempt.

            “Why else would I be here?” Crowley asks, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. By now, his sunglasses have fogged up from the cold so he levitates them off his face and they clean themselves off on his blazer before neatly replacing themselves on the tip of his nose.

            Kiggdas appraises him and comes closer still. Crowley wishes he wouldn’t. He smells bad, even for a demon. “There are rumors,” Kiggdas says. “About you, Crowley. Some in Hell say the last time you reported in, you reeked of _angelic grace._ ” The ugly demon cocks his head to the side, stepping nearer and nearer until Crowley is grimacing from the stench of him. Like every rotten thing in your refrigerator has been packed inside of a hot car in July for a month.

            “How would that be, Crowley? How would you get the smell of _goodness_ on you?”

            “Oh, that’s easy.” Crowley flashes a serpentine smile. “Popped by a Catholic orphanage to tempt one of the nuns just before reporting into the head office. We’ll have her by the end of the decade.”

            Kiggdas scowls at him, red eyes glowing. “Is that so?”

            Crowley rolls his neck. “Yup. Well, if that’s all, I’ll be off then. Chaos to sew, people to tempt, and whatnot. _Arrivederci!”_ But just as Crowley turns to saunter back to his car, two more demons appear before him. He freezes, the smile falling off his face.

            Daxis and Iathaxa, commonly called “the torture twins” downstairs. All demons started as angels, so Daxis and Iathaxa are no more siblings than Crowley and Aziraphale are, but that’s what they like people to think. Even in heaven, before the rebellion, the two were inseparable…and a little demented. They were two of the first to fall.

            “We’ve been watching you,” Daxis says. His voice is quiet and hissing, like a voice in the back of your mind whispering terrible things.

            “We know where you were that night,” Iathaxa continues. Her wide, yellow-lipped smile is full of wolf-life fangs, always stained red.

            “With the _angel_ ,” Daxis says.

            “Aziraphale!” his sister proclaims. “We saw you!”

            “Ohh… _that_ day,” Crowley says lamely, growing uncomfortable. “Well, yeah, but I have a perfectly good explanation for that—”

            Kiggdas’s hand closes over Crowley’s shoulder. “Enough of your deceit,” the disgusting demon snarls. Rainwater splashes his face as Daxis and Iathaxa help Kaggdis to wrestle Crowley to his knees. “I have suspected you for so long, traitor! But now that Daxis and Iathaxa have seen you fraternizing with an angel, that is all the proof we need!”

            “You’ll be handed over to Beelzebub for your trial!” Daxis says.

            “But not before we have our fun with you…” Iathaxa grins at her brother.

            “Very fun…” he agrees, and Crowley gets the sense that it won’t be very fun for him…

            The torture twins seize him.

Very nearby to the meeting place Kiggdas and Crowley agreed upon is a set of red, cellar doors. Daxis and Iathaxa haul him toward them as he kicks and thrashes. And despite his shouting, no one on the quiet street is able to hear him.

            Kiggdas pulls open the metal doors and his cohorts drag their prey with them down the steps into pitch darkness.

 

* * *

 

“Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.”

_Beep._

Aziraphale sets down the receiver and sighs. The antique timepiece on his wall reads nearly midnight and, yes, he knows that Crowley is a demon, but still! This level of tardiness is rude, even for him!

The angel huffs and busies himself with straightening the stacks of books piled on his desk in the backroom of the bookstore. Normally, their delicate scent of paper and must can brighten even the darkest of his moods, but today, he has half a mind to give Crowley—well, a piece of his mind!

Outside, the thunderstorm rolls. Rain batters the windows. The pot of tea he had prepared for them has gone cold on its cart by the table.

Aziraphale continues to fidget with his books even as his gaze wanders to the phone. Chewing his lip, he picks up the receiver one more time, promising himself that if Crowley doesn’t answer, that’s it! He’s not calling again!

He’s just concerned…

Crowley is never late for their meetings. Never.

“Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.”

_Beep._

In the other room, the bell above the door jingles.

Aziraphale’s spirits brighten and he dashes out of his study, Crowley’s name already in his mouth. However, his leather wingtips grind to a stop on the carpet when he sees, not Crowley, but Gabriel standing in the doorway. Rain has flattened the archangel’s hair to his forehead, and he presents a stretched smile when he sees Aziraphale.

“Ah, so good to see you, Aziraphale!” Gabriel says, closing the door behind him. He looks down at his drenched suit and frowns, then snaps his fingers and his clothes are miraculously dry.

“Gabriel. What a pleasant surprise… What, ah, what are you doing here?” Maybe it’s a good thing that Crowley didn’t show up. If he had, they both would be in a lot of trouble right now. Aziraphale wrings his hands and tries to smile.

“Oh, I was in the neighborhood. Decided to drop by and see how things are going.”

Codeword for: people are saying things about you and I’m here to be sure the rumors aren’t true. After all, Gabriel, Archangel of the Lord, does not simply “drop by to see how things are going.”

“Cup of tea?” Aziraphale offers lamely.

Gabriel sniffs at the insinuation that he would consume human sustenance. “No,” he says haughtily. “Thank you.”

The archangel snoops through his books, peering behind stacks and shelves. “Has anyone been here?” he asks.

“No! I mean, yes, of course. Customers. Lots of customers.” Aziraphale followers nervously behind Gabriel.

“But no one…special? No one, perhaps, should not be here?” Gabriel cuts his eyes toward Aziraphale, who pales and fidgets with the front of his white jacket.

“Special? Whoever did you have in mind?”

“A demon, perhaps?”

Aziraphale feigns shock. “A demon!” he gasps, placing a hand over his heart. “No! Of course not! What a ridiculous idea! As if I would allow a _demon_ into my bookshop!”

Gabriel stops snooping, all pretenses set aside. “So, I have your personal guarantee that the demon Crowley has not been here?”

Aziraphale nods sternly. “You have my word, Gabriel.” He feels sick lying like this, but it has to be done. For his own safety, and Crowley’s.

“Good,” Gabriel says, apparently satisfied. He can’t imagine another angel lying, especially to _him._ “Very good. I’ll leave you then. Good day, Aziraphale.”

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, stopping him at the door. “Might I ask what brought this on?” It’s a risky question, but if some angel has been spying on him and Crowley, he should know.

“Just a rumor,” Gabriel says. “I never believed it, of course, but when you have a rumor this worrisome, you tend to check up.” His smile is sickeningly sweet. “Apparently, Ramiel—you remember him, he was charged with spying on demon communications?—well, apparently, he overheard a rumor among the demon lines that you and Crowley had been seen together. It’s got the demons very worked up, evidently.”

“The demons said that?” Aziraphale says, his stomach twisting. So, maybe he isn’t the only one being checked up on right now… “Hmm, well, they are incorrect, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Gabriel bids him farewell one more time before disappearing in a flash of holy light.

Aziraphale waits a beat longer before sprinting back into his study. He grabs the phone and dials the number, chewing on his knuckle.

“Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.”

_Beep._

“Ah, hello, Mr. Crowley. This is…John. From the…garden…expo…ahhh…” Aziraphale licks his lips. “Just checking in. Heard some troubling news. If you’re there, pick up please.” The angel waits for several seconds before grimacing. “All right, well, I suppose you aren’t home…um…” He clears throat. “Good day.”

Click.

 

* * *

 

Daxis and Iathaxa throw Crowley into a wooden chair in the center of the empty cellar. With a wave of his hand, Kiggdas summons ropes to tighten around Crowley’s wrists and ankles, securing him in place. The course fiber bites into his skin.

            “Do you know what we do with traitors?” Daxis wants to know. He grins fiendishly in the darkness. Long, greasy hair dangles in his eyes. His sister dances around in the corner of Crowley’s vision, giggling to herself in utter glee. Bloodthirsty glee.

            “Well, do you?” she chimes.

            Crowley scowls at the three of them from the top of his eyes. “Well,” he says slowly, pretending to think about it. “Considering you’re called ‘the torture twins,’ I imagine it has something to do with torture.”

            Kiggdas nods sternly behind Daxis. “You know I don’t normally condone this sort of thing,” he says – which is true, oddly enough. Kiggdas is an old-fashioned sort of demon. He prefers mind games, temptation, and straight-up murder. He’s the sort of fellow who believes that if you’re going to use a knife on someone, you ought to do it right the first time. “But it was the only way I could get these two to work with me.”

            “Nothing personal,” Iathaxa says, finally stepping fully into view. Her hair, as black and oily as her brother’s, falls in wild tangles down her shoulders. Dead flowers of all sorts are woven into the knots like she’s a zombie Disney princess.

            “Yes, nothing personal, Crowley,” her brother echoes.

            “But we have a brand-new little toy!”

            “And we want to use it!”

            “But it only works for demons. So, we thought, let’s work with Kiggdas and find a traitor!” Iathaxa twirls around and runs off into the shadows. When she returns, she’s carrying a big, leather bag. She drops it at Crowley’s feet and goes to digging inside. From within, she draws a thing that looks like a giant syringe filled with clear liquid.

            Crowley sniffs. He can’t smell poison, or drugs, or anything bad from it.

            “It’s water,” Daxis tells him. “100% clear water.”

            “Ahh…” Crowley says, unsure whether he’s supposed to be afraid yet or not. “Oh, no…water…”

            “And this—” Iathaxa takes something else out of the bag. It’s a glass mixing bowl topped with about a hundred layers of plastic cling-wrap. Inside the bowl is a cup’s worth of clear liquid. It, too, is just water…but…something about it unsettles Crowley. He doesn’t know why until Iathaxa says, “—is holy water.”

            Oh.

            Oh, boy.

            _“Crowley? Are you there? Can you hear me?”_ Crowley jumps at the voice in his head, and the torture twins take that as a good sign. They laugh and get to work carefully wrapping the holy water for whatever experiment they intend to perform on him.

            _Aziraphale?_ he thinks. _Is that you?_ Part of Crowley can’t believe it. Communicating telepathically like this is extremely dangerous. Anyone could listen in – angel or demon – and usually, Aziraphale is the cautious one.

_“Oh, thank God! I was growing concerned! Listen, you must be careful. Some demons know that we’ve been hanging around each other! They’re certain to be looking for you right now!”_

_Ah, little late on the warning there, angel._

_“What?”_

Crowley eyes the demons in front of him, praying—well, not _praying_ , but…you know!—that they don’t think to listen to his thoughts. _They’ve already found me._

_“Oh, Lord!”_

_Yeaah…_

_“Where are you? I’ll be right there!”_

_No!_ He can feel the angel’s surprise as easily as if he were standing right in front of him. _No, you can’t,_ Crowley tells him. _It’s too dangerous. There are three of them and one of you._

_“I’ll set you free. Then there will be two against one. Better odds!”_

Crowley grimaces at his tied-up feet. _No,_ he says.

            _“But, Crowley—”_

 _I said no, Aziraphale! We can’t risk it! Just—_ He swallows, watching the torture twins dip the needle into the bowl of holy water, combining just a drop of it with the normal stuff. Will that dilute the effects of the holy water, or will he die anyway? Surely, that’s what Daxis and Iathaxa want to know too.

            _“Crowley?”_ Aziraphale’s voice is tight with worry.

            _I’m here._

_“What happened? You suddenly stopped talking. Are you all right?”_

_Fine, just…_ He grimaces at his feet. _Just stay where you are, and stay out of it. If I make it out, I’ll send you a sign. If not…_ Crowley isn’t one for huggy-feely things, or long goodbyes. So, he just says, _It’s been nice knowing you, angel._

_“Crowley, wait—”_

But Crowley blocks the angel’s voice from his mind and returns his focus to the problem at hand. Daxis is approaching with the needle.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale is in a state of complete panic.

            Crowley has been captured by demons who know he betrayed them. He could be anywhere, in any building in all of London. Maybe even outside of London, who knows what Crowley gets up to between their meetings? Oh, Lord, oh, Lord…this is bad. This is very, very bad.

            They could kill him, Aziraphale realizes, stopping cold in his tracks. This isn’t angel justice. There are no nasty notes, passive-aggressive comments, or fair trials. The people who have Crowley are demons. Demons kill _for fun!_

_What the HELL do they do to their criminals?_

Aziraphale wipes a hand over his mouth, pacing the bookstore. Damn what Crowley said. Aziraphale needs to find him, but how? Usually, it’s Crowley who does the saving, and the sneaking, and the conniving. How does he do it? What would Crowley do?

Probably he would invoke a little demonic miracle…but as Aziraphale doesn’t have any of those up his sleeve, an angelic one will have to do.

 

* * *

 

Daxis presses the needle into Crowley’s skin and, even though Crowley doesn’t even blink, Iathaxa squeals with delight.

“Think about what you’re doing,” Crowley warns him, keeping his voice low and threatening. “You know what I did. You know I’m a traitor. And I don’t doubt the dark council will believe you,” he says, holding Daxis’s black eyes. “But think about it. What will the dark council and all the other demons I betrayed think when they hear that you killed me, yourself? They don’t get any justice, any pleasure out of it at all… What then?”

Daxis hesitates with his thumb on the plunger, but his sister chimes in. “We won’t kill you! We’ll just hurt you very badly and then hand you over for your trial!”

“Iathaxa, Iathaxa, Iathaxa,” Crowley says, clicking his tongue. “This is _holy water._ Do you really expect me to survive being injected with it? Even a diluted solution of it?”

Then, she hesitates too and Crowley feels hope for the first time. Not an extreme amount of hope – after all, even if they don’t do this, they’ll still hand him over to the dark council, who will certainly kill him anyway…but hey. Progress.

“No,” Kiggdas says.

Crowley and the torture twins stare at him.

“Let’s kill him.”

“WHAT!” Crowley yells. “You _can’t!_ The dark council—”

“Isn’t here,” Kiggdas interrupts. “The three of us are the only ones who know about your betrayal. For all the dark council knows, you got murdered by that angel.” He smiles and cockroaches crawl out of his teeth. “So, let’s kill him.”

“Yes!” Iathaxa agrees giddily.

“Let’s kill him!” Daxis says. He starts to press down on the plunger.

“No, no—”

As the diluted holy water enters his veins, Crowley throws his head back and screams.

He screams and screams.

Oh, how he screams…

 

* * *

 

It’s not easy tracking demons, which is why angels don’t normally bother. It takes a lot of focus, a lot of effort, and a lot of power. But within minutes, Aziraphale—exhausted and suddenly craving camembert—has located his friend.

            No time for lunch. Crowley needs him.

 

* * *

 

It’s worse than fire.

            Crowley fell through the infernal flames once and it wasn’t half as bad as this pain. This is hotter, sharper, like his blood has turned into the most acidic acid in the universe, like his body is boiling inside out, like his bones are peeling.

            He screams and screams and screams.

            Then there’s a flash.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale lands hard on his feet, feeling drained. The sword in his hand is mostly for show, and he hopes he won’t have to use it. “DEMONS!” he shouts, invoking his loudest, most glorious Angelic Shout™.

            The three demons surrounding Crowley startle. The one nearest Crowley drops a large syringe filled with liquid. The demons gape in holy terror and, doing his best to ignore the tortured screams of his friend, Aziraphale raises his pawn-shop sword and proclaims, “DISPERSE! RETURN TO WHENCE YOU CAME, FOUL ONES!”  

            Just to make it look good, Aziraphale summons a column of fiery, white light to shine down upon him.

            That bit of stage magic is enough to spook the demons into running away – or, more accurately, melting into the shadows. In seconds, they’re gone.

            How far, he doesn’t know. But he doesn’t care.

            “Crowley!” he gasps, dropping his sword.

            Crowley doesn’t react in the least. He’s too busy convulsing and shrieking in pain. His normally aloof face is twisted in agony, his eyes screwed shut. The screams carry a second voice inside of them – the high-pitched cries of a dying snake.

            “Oh, Crowley…oh, my Crowley…what have they done to you?” Aziraphale zeroes in on the syringe. The moment he touches it, he senses the minute presence of holy water. “Oh, my Lord.”

            With a wave of his hand, Crowley’s bindings fall away and he slumps out of the chair. Aziraphale catches him, lowering him to the floor. “Don’t worry, Crawly,” he whispers. “I can fix this. I can fix this.” He touches a hand to the demon’s forehead. “I think I still have one more miracle left in me today.”

            With a flash of white light, all traces of holy water evaporate out of Crowley’s blood. The demon instantly goes limp in Aziraphale’s arms, like a ragdoll. For one, heart-stopping moment, the demon doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move… But then, he spasms and coughs hard, black blood running out of the corner of his mouth. And terrifying as it is to see, Crowley starts to breathe after that.

            Aziraphale tries to feel relieved. “Crowley?” he urges, stroking the demon’s cheek. “Are you all right?”

            Yellow eyes flutter open and Crowley stares uncomprehendingly at his face. His chest rises and falls, carrying rattling breaths. He looks even more exhausted than Aziraphale, even his physical form looks bad. His sunglasses have fallen off, his face is white as a sheet, and his red hair clings to his forehead with sweat. After a moment, those snake-like eyes narrow slightly. “Angel?” he breathes, his voice hoarse from screaming. “What…”

            “I came to rescue you,” Aziraphale tells him, smiling a little. “I know you said not to, but I couldn’t help it. I was worried.”

            “Where…” Crowley squints into the darkness, breathing heavily. He tries to sit up, but Aziraphale gently pushes him back down. “Where did they go…?”

            Aziraphale looks a little pleased with himself when he says, “I ran them off.”

            Crowley blinks up at him. “You did what?”

            “I ran them off.”

            Crowley’s face screws up again. “How?”

            “With, um—” Aziraphale grabs his sword. “With this. And a little miracle-work.”

            There are problems associated with that, obviously. Problems the two of them will have to sort out later, like tracking down those three demons and killing them before they spread the word of Crowley and Aziraphale’s agreement and making sure the other angels don’t learn any more about it. But those are problems for another day. For now, Crowley shuts his eyes and relaxes, too tired to care that he’s cradled against Aziraphale’s chest. It feels nice. Not that he’d ever say that out loud.

            After a time, Crowley looks up at his angel, who is smiling down at him, rather shamelessly. “I suppose I should say thank you,” he croaks.

            Aziraphale scoffs lightly. “No need. I would have to save you at least a half-dozen times to call us even.”

            Crowley snorts, drifting on the edge of sleep. As his angel helps him first sit up, then stand up, Aziraphale says, “So, I don’t think it would be wise for you to return to your flat just yet.”

            “What d’ya mean?”

            Aziraphale opens the cellar doors and helps Crowley up the stairs. His Bentley is still parked outside just where he left it, wet from the rain with a parking ticket stuck under the windshield wiper. He sets it on fire.

            “I mean,” Aziraphale says. “That those demons know where you live. They could even be there waiting for you right now. I think it would be safer—” He hesitates just slightly, a touch embarrassed. “I think it would be safer if you stayed with me, in the bookshop for a few days. Just until you recover your strength.”

            Aziraphale deposits Crowley in the backseat of the Bentley so he can lay down, and the angel gets in behind the steering wheel. The car rumbles to life with a touch, Queen automatically coming on the stereo. “What do you think?”

            Crowley ponders it for a moment. “Well, all right,” he relents, trying his best to sound annoyed when he isn’t at all. “But just for a day or so.”

            “Of course.”

            As they drive casually down the back London street, Crowley drifts off to sleep and Aziraphale allows himself to smile at the road and feel content. They arrive at the bookstore not long after and Crowley barely stirs as his angel helps him inside, laying him out on the bed in the back room. All his black leather and sharp attitude look humorously out of place nestled in the soft quilts.

            “Sleep well, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, turning off all the light save for the little tabletop lamp on his desk. He sits there with a book and reads while Crowley dozes beside him, feeling more at ease than he has for quite a time.


	2. Exorcised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nobody:  
> absolutely not a soul:  
> me: SUPERNATURAL REFERENCE

VENICE, 200 YEARS BEFORE THE END OF THE WORLD

* * *

 

There are a lot of things that Crowley hates: sweet wines, the color yellow, _seagulls_. But that comes with being a demon. Misery and discontent and the like. However, the number one thing he absolutely, completely _despises_ has got to be exorcists. Especially the amateurs.

            There are five of them in total, all men. Because of course. All very young and reeking of testosterone and hormones and a holier-than-thou attitude. Crowley sits miserably against the stone wall, scowling as they scramble and mutter over their prayer books. He imagines they must feel very, very lucky to have found a real, actual demon with almost no know-how.

            Well, that or very, very unlucky.

            “Hey, listen fellas,” Crowley says, gaining their attention. “As much as I’ve loved hanging out with you boys, I’m really a rather busy person.” He lifts his chained wrists and smiles, rattling the cuffs. “So, what do you say, hmm? Let me go and I’ll put in a good word for you in the afterlife.”

            One of the young men, a dark-haired native Venetian boy named Paolo, grits his teeth and wheels on Crowley. “Silence, demon!” he shouts in Italian. Paolo brandishes his rosary and the sight of it makes Crowley’s eyes sting a bit behind his sunglasses.

            As he averts his eyes, the five young exorcists approach, all clutching their crosses and black books. Four of them look absolutely petrified, all except Paolo. His expression is stern and nearly unreadable, his eyes dark and hard as the stone wall against Crowley’s back. He looks older than his fifteen years.

            Crowley is almost impressed.

            “Paolo, is it?” he asks, surprising the boy.

            “Don’t answer it,” another of the boys advises Paolo. “Demons are connivers. It only wishes to tempt and confuse you.”

            Paolo sets his jaw but ignores the advice of his friend. “That’s right. And who are you, demon? What is your name?”

            Crowley frowns. For such a clever-looking young man, that wasn’t a very clever attempt at getting his name. Names have power, after all. He can’t go handing his out to every person he comes by. Especially not an exorcist. “You can call me…Lorenzo.” He flashes a toothy smile.

            Paolo scowls. “Is that your real name, demon?”

            “No, ‘course not.”

            “Paolo, look.” One of the other boys hands Paolo his book of exorcisms, pointing to a passage. “It says we should invoke the name of an angel to help us send the demon back to Hell.”

            Paolo hums, scanning the passage. “Which shall we invoke?”

            “Michael?” one of the others suggests, but Paolo gapes at him.

            “An Archangel? No. No way. We are not deserving of an Archangel, nor is this petty demon.”

            “Hey! I’ll have you know I’m plenty worthy!” Crowley protests.

            “Gabriel?” the same boy says, and now all the others stare at him.

            “Gabriel is also an Archangel,” Paolo says slowly.

            “Oh…”

            Okay, so maybe these boys aren’t the brightest candlesticks in the box. Which gives Crowley an idea. “Well,” he scoffs, sitting back. “I don’t care who you bring here. I can fight any old angel,” he boasts, then, quieter as if he’s trying to speak under his breath, he adds, “So long as it isn’t that Aziraphale.”

            Paolo catches it, of course. “What was that, demon?”

            “Hmm?” Crowley looks up innocently. “What was what?”

            “That name you spoke just now,” Paolo says threateningly. “What was it?”

            “I didn’t say anything.”

            The five boys exchange frowns. Suddenly, Paolo surges forward, pressing his cross into the exposed flesh of Crowley’s hand and hisses, “Speak the name, foul one!”

            “AH!” Crowley gasps, wrenching his hand away. His skin still sizzles for several moments after it’s been removed. “Aziraphale!” he roars.

            “Azeer…Azeer-i-fell?” one of the boys echoes.

            Paolo latches onto the name like a flea to a dog. “Aziraphale?”

            Crowley remains silent, trying not to smile at his own cleverness. _Go on,_ he urges the boys. _Invoke Aziraphale to help you…see where that gets you._ He reclines comfortably against the wall, and waits.

            “Paolo,” the fifth boys says. This one hasn’t spoken yet. Not a good sign. “Let me try.”

            Crowley frowns. Try what?

            Paolo doesn’t seem pleased, either. He turns his back on Crowley but the demon can still hear him. “No, Luca. It is too dangerous for any of us to do this alone. Let us invoke the angel to guide us.”

            “I do not think it is wise,” Luca says quietly. “To use the angel suggested by the demon.”

            Crowley silently curses this Luca.

            “I am the only one here who was actually seen an exorcism done,” Luca continues. “Let me try. If it works, I can teach you all.”

            “And if it fails?”

            Luca makes a face that is half a smile and half a grimace. “Then may God have mercy on my soul.”

            Paolo chews his lip for a moment longer before squeezing his friend’s arm and nodding. “Go on, then. Show us how it’s done.”

            Crowley stiffens but doesn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing any more than that.

            Luca approaches very cautiously, rosary and prayer book in hand. He appraises Crowley for a brief instant before turning his face down to the page. When he reads, his voice is loud and clear as a bell, and his every word strikes a throbbing ache through Crowley’s skull.

 _“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.”_ Luca moves closer, dangling his rosary in front of Crowley’s face so close he can feel the heat radiating from the beads. He wants to swat it away, but his hands are tied. “ _Ergo draco maledicte, et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare.”_

As Luca speaks, something deep and terrible inside Crowley starts to rumble. “AHH SHUT UP!” he roars, his voice both human and serpent. Crowley has never been one for cold-blood murder. It’s not _him._ It’s not stylish. But if this kid doesn’t shut up in the next fifteen seconds, Crowley honestly can’t guarantee his safety.

His unearthly howl frightens Luca, who stumbles backwards a step and stares with huge, dark eyes. Paolo has caught his shoulder to steady him, but none of the boys look confident any longer. Crowley takes the opportunity to really push it. His mind feels foggy with hate and pain, and the longer he looks at Luca, the more he’s starting to want to kill him…

“RUN AWAY, LITTLE BOYS!” Crowley commands, his voice shaking the walls of the abandoned convent. He digs his fingernails into the soil under him and wills the ground to swarm with snakes. The serpents obey his order and the boys shriek and scramble. All but Paolo, who wrenches the book from Luca to continue the exorcism.

 _“Vade, Satana, inventor et magister, omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine, quem inferi tremunt!”_ Paolo yells over the hissing snakes around his ankles and the gasping and shrieking of his friends.

Crowley doubles over, moaning half in pain and half in anger. He hasn’t felt this way since the rebellion. Fresh after the fall, all the demons were feral. Bloodthirsty, murderous monsters squirming in Hell. It took a long time for them to get their senses back.

He’s starting to feel that way again, like the exorcism is reverting him back into a mindless killing machine.

It scares him. “Stop!” he shouts, his voice rough and pleading. “Stop, now! Before I kill you all!” He means for it to be a warning, not a threat. But that’s how the boys take it.

“Silence, demon!” Luca commands. He and the others are barely on their feet, between the shaking and the snakes.

“No!” Crowley cries. “You don’t understand! I don’t want to kill you!”

“It’s working!” one of the boys decides. “The demon is seeing the error of his way! Go on, Paolo! Finish it!”

The snakes writhing on the floor twist and snap. Several swarm around Crowley’s bindings, tearing at the chains, hungry for their master to be free. Hungry for human blood. Crowley wills them to stop, to leave him chained, but they won’t listen.

 _Be free, Master,_ they whisper. _Be free, kill the boys, be free, kill the boys!_

 _“Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire te rogamus, audi nos. Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris, te rogamus, audi nos,”_ Paolo reads, having to nearly scream to be heard over the snakes. As he reaches the final passage of the exorcism, Crowley sees red. “ _Terribilis Deus de sanctuario suo. Deus Israhel ipse truderit virtutem et fortitudinem plebi Suae. Benedictus deus. Gloria patri.”_

“AZIRAPHALE!” Crowley screams to the ceiling. His chains snap. Suddenly he’s free and his body moves on its own.

“Paolo!” Luca cries as Crowley snatches the boy by his throat, crushing him against the wall. The boys don’t have enough faith. That’s why the exorcism doesn’t work. That’s why Crowley is still here, on Earth, and not hurtling back to Hell at the speed of light. Amateurs.

Even brave Paolo doesn’t truly believe. Too bad.

“Release him, demon!” Luca shouts, coming at him with a cross in his hand. Crowley whirls on him, eyes glowing acid-yellow. The cross flies from his hand, hitting the wall, and Luca freezes.

Crowley turns back to Paolo, whose face has drained of color. Maybe from fear, maybe from oxygen deprivation. Crowley barely hears himself speak when he says, “You should have run away when I gave you the chance, boy.” His grip tightens. Paolo squirms, choking.

Suddenly, a hand touches Crowley’s shoulder. He turns, expression dark, and finds Aziraphale standing behind him, looking highly confused.

“Crowley,” he says. Behind him, the other four boys are cowering against the wall, trying in vain to get away from the snakes. “What is going on?” Aziraphale wants to know. He has a weak, worried smile on his face.

Crowley doesn’t answer. He glares at the angel, who reeks of heavenly grace, and lets out a threatening hiss, his face momentarily transforming into that of a huge, venomous serpent. Aziraphale releases his shoulder and takes a surprised step backwards.

Crowley rounds on Paolo, whose is starting to pass out. His eyes have rolled up and his legs are kicking weakly now. The demon can taste the boy’s soul slowly ebbing out. It’s delicious.

“Boys,” Aziraphale is saying quietly. He hasn’t turned his back on Crowley, he’s too stunned. He’s never seen him like this before. What on Earth happened? “Just stay back. My friend here is…ah, having a bad day, I suppose. But truly, he isn’t usually like this.”

“Your _friend_?” one of the children repeat, flabbergasted. “That man is a demon!”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale admits. “Yes, he is. But he’s really all right fellow once you get to know him…” The angel turns his head to the door of the convent, which flies open at his command. The boys scramble outside and Aziraphale straightens his shirt front and bowtie. “Now, you listen here, Crowley,” he says, trying to sound loud and commanding. “I don’t know what these boys did to upset you, but killing them isn’t the answer!”

Crowley doesn’t even flinch. He seems determined to kill the boy kid he has pinned to the wall. Between his expensive Italian loafers are two things that help Aziraphale suddenly understand what happened here: a string of rosary beads, and a black book of exorcisms.

Oh, dear.

It would seem Crowley has gone and nearly gotten himself exorcized. No wonder he’s a bit testy. Exorcisms have a tendency to do that to demons when not performed correctly. They usually just, well, make the demon angrier…

“All right, you’ve given me no choice, Crowley!” Aziraphale says, marching over. He grabs the demon’s shoulder again, narrowly stepping back in time to dodge a wild snap of his snake head, and wrenches his wrist away from young Paolo. The boy slides down the wall, coughing and gasping.

When Crowley scowls at Aziraphale, the angel understands that this is hardly his friend at all. He’s been completely overwhelmed with hellish influence. His eyes are nearly black with hate, and he doesn’t appear to even recognize Aziraphale.

“Stay back, _Angel,_ ” Crowley warns, his voice a rumbling growl deep in his throat. “Or I’ll kill you too.”

Aziraphale huffs in offense. “You will _not_!”

The demon tilts his head, frowning but a little intrigued. “Do I know you?” Crowley asks, squinting as if he can’t see Aziraphale’s face well.

“Yes, Crowley,” Aziraphale urges. “Of course, you do. We’re friends, remember? Very good friends!”

Crowley squints harder and then Aziraphale notices that the demon is swaying a bit. “Are we?” he asks. His voice sounds almost normal all of a sudden. And more than that, he doesn’t sound angry anymore. Just tired and confused.

Aziraphale decides to risk it.

“Yes,” he says. Carefully, he takes Crowley’s hand into his own and holds it between them. “Yes, Crowley. It’s me, Aziraphale.”

Recognition glimmers in his yellow eyes and Crowley stumbles a few steps to the right. “Aziraphale?” he says, smiling. “Oh, yeah. Yeah. Aziraphale. How could I…? How could I forget? You’re—you’re _Aziraphale!_ ”

“Oh!” the angel gasps as Crowley’s knees buckle. He catches him and lowers him safely to the floor across from Paolo, who is now beginning to wake. Aziraphale thinks it would be best for the two of them not to be here when the boy comes to, so he lifts Crowley’s shoulders off the floor and blinks them away from the abandoned convent.

In the next second, they’re halfway across Venice, back in the room Aziraphale is renting from the elderly woman who owns the property. He lays Crowley on the velvet fainting couch and then casually strides over to the cart in the corner of the room. It has draughts of brandy and wine, with glasses in the cabinet underneath. Nothing rouses Crowley quite like a strong, alcoholic beverage, so Aziraphale pops the lid and pours two glasses of brandy.

He sets one on the table beside his half-dozing companion, but when the smell hits Crowley’s nose, he opens his eyes. “Is that alcohol I smell?” the demon asks, groping for the cup beside his head.

“Brandy,” Aziraphale tells him, smiling at the delighted little _“ohh!”_ Crowley makes.

Crowley downs his drink in one go, then slides back down on the couch and rubs his eyes. “What happened?” he asks.

“I believe those young men attempted to exorcise you.”

Crowley’s face twists up and he moans. “Oh, yeah. That sucked.” Aziraphale refills his drink and after Crowley finishes, he looks up at Aziraphale and says, “What happened after? I can’t remember.”

Crowley is a demon. At his very atomic level, he is a murderer. Evil. But somehow, this hereditary killer has not killed in nearly five-hundred years. He says it’s not _cool,_ not _stylish_ but Aziraphale thinks he knows the truth. Or at least, he likes to think this is the truth: that Crowley is too good at heart to kill. He doesn’t want to, plain and simple. It’s why he makes such an awful demon.

Needless to say, telling him that he nearly murdered a fifteen-year-old boy would devastate him – even if he didn’t show it.

“I heard your call,” Aziraphale says, keeping on a steady smile. Crowley watches him with nothing but trust on his face. “I came as soon as I could and stopped the boys exorcising you. They ran off.” It worries him slightly how easily the lie falls off his tongue. He’s been spending too much time with Crowley.

But maybe Crowley has been spending too much time with him, too.

“Huh.” The demon reaches up to the cart beside his head and refills his tumbler again. “Well, that’s good at least. Those kids were complete amateurs,” he says, sipping his brandy. “They could have gotten themselves killed…” he says with deep concern. Then, after a beat – “Or me.” His eyes cut over to Aziraphale to see if the angel caught his slip-up, but Aziraphale just sips his drink and pretends not to have noticed.

“I suppose I should thank you,” Crowley says, finally managing to sit up. His long hair has grown messy from the exorcism and being carried, and it’s the color of blood in the low light of Aziraphale’s room. “After all, it’s hardly part of the arrangement to save each other from stupid mistakes like that.”

“I was glad to do it. That’s what friends are for.” Aziraphale offers a little smile, and Crowley—despite himself—doesn’t gag or roll his eyes.

“ _Friends,_ ” he says, tasting the word like a sip of expensive liquor. He eyes the amber-colored drink in his glass and lifts it to his lips, smirking a bit. “You do realize you just called a demon your friend?”

Aziraphale, admittedly, doesn’t like it when he words it that way, but the angel merely shrugs. “And _you_ have a friend who is an angel,” he counters.

Crowley’s smile turns sour, but only for a moment. Then, he lifts his glass and says, “To…a damn strange friendship.”

Aziraphale chuckles and returns the toast. “To us.”

 


	3. Thrown

GREECE, ABOUT 2,500 YEARS BEFORE THE END OF THE WORLD

* * *

 

Aziraphale’s sandals crunch through ash and broken bits of pottery. The air tastes of fire and death, and any light coming in from the windows is choked by the lingering plumes of smoke. Last night, there was a celebration. People all over Greece kept their braziers lit and partied into the night, drowning their hidden horror in barrels of wine - possibly explaining this very obvious palace-fire.

            In the middle of the devastation, lounging on a singed, velvet couch, popping grapes into his mouth, is Crowley. The demon barely looks up to acknowledge Aziraphale’s approach, but when the angel stops in front of him with his arms folded and a very cross look on his face, Crowley sighs lightly and says, “Hello, Aziraphale,” in a very cheery tone. “Long time no see. Ever find that flaming sword?”

            “ _Oh!_ ” Aziraphale says in frustration, stamping his sandaled foot. “Crowley! I knew it was one of your kind behind this! But I never imagined _you_ would sink so low as to do this!”

            Crowley smiles at him behind his eyeglasses, lazily popping another grape into his mouth. “And what, exactly, do you think I’ve done, angel?” There are vague singe marks on the edges of his black chiton.

            Aziraphale’s mouth falls open. He gestures around them at the burned palace. “There were _people_ living here, Crowley! Humans! Children! How could you be so heartless?”

            Crowley sits up on his elbows, finally gazing around. “Ahh,” he says, sucking air between his teeth. “Yikes. Must have fallen asleep. I _had_ wondered why everyone went so quiet…” Then he looks at Aziraphale, who is frowning at him. “This wasn’t me, angel.” He flops back down on his couch. “Sorry to disappoint.”

            “Oh, _right_. You just _happened_ to be here at the same time as this devastating fire, sitting in the middle of it, and had _no idea_ it was burning! Didn’t you hear the screams?”

            “Listen!” Crowley jumps up suddenly, tossing his bowl of grapes over his shoulder so it shatters on the ground. “I am a _demon,_ Aziraphale. Screams are like… _white noise_ to me! I don’t even hear them anymore. And as for the fire—” He holds up his arm, which spontaneously combusts, causing Aziraphale to startled and jump back. “Demon. Fireproof. I probably fell asleep while the place was burning.”

            Aziraphale, who has known Crowley for nearly 3,500 years now, has seen the wily old serpent do all sorts of pretty terrible things. But never like this. So, as much as the other angels would probably laugh at him for it, Aziraphale believes him. God help him.

“All right,” the angel relents. “Then what _are_ you doing here, Crowley? Last I heard, you were in Egypt arranging a library burning.”

            “ _Pff,_ that was ages ago. Where have you been?” Crowley turns and strides over to the window, where he peers out into the darkness of night. “What time is it?” he asks.

            Aziraphale doesn’t miss the fact that Crowley avoided his question, but he answers anyway. “Nearly midnight, why?”

            The demon makes a face and turns away from the window, striding past his angelic acquaintance. “I’ve got a birth to oversee,” he says, not very happily. In fact, if Aziraphale didn’t know better, he’d say Crowley sounded grim.

            “A birth?” the angel follows after him. “What _birth?_ ”

            “Pasiphae, queen of Minos, is giving birth to her second child tonight.”

            Aziraphale tilts his head, keeping in tow with Crowley. “And what, dare I ask, does that have to do with you?”

            Crowley heaves a deep, dejected sigh and says, “The child will be a monster. Half-bull, half-human. One of Satan’s failed attempts at creating the antichrist.”

            “Good Lord!” Aziraphale places a hand over his heart. “And what are you going to do about it?”

            “What do you think?” Crowley says miserably. “I’ve been chosen to kill it.”

            Now, this surprises Aziraphale. “Why would the demons want a child of their master killed?” he asks. By now, they’ve left the burning palace and are heading down a grassy hill toward the stables, which are the only part of the palace left untouched by the fire.

            All of the horses spook at Crowley’s presence. They buck and whinny in fright, but he only scowls and tells them to shut up. Then he grabs the nearest mare, a black horse with a silky mane, and guides her out of the stable. She neighs in fear, but Crowley hops onto her back and extends a hand to help Aziraphale up.

            The angel almost declines, but Crowley raises an eyebrow, and Aziraphale sighs. He takes the demon’s hand and climbs up into the saddle behind him. “They want the monster dead,” Crowley says. “Because if it grows up, it will be too savage for even them to control. It will kill all sorts of people too early, before the demons are able to collect their souls. It would be an _inconvenience,_ or so they tell me.”

            Aziraphale can almost hear Crowley rolling his eyes, but there’s more to his reluctance than just laziness. “And you’re…okay with this?” he ventures carefully.

            “No, of course I’m not okay with it!” Crowley snaps, frightening the poor mare as they gallop down the dirt road toward the city below. “It may be a monster but it’s also a—” He stops himself, scowling hatefully at the candle lights in the distance instead.

            Aziraphale almost smiles. “A…baby?”

            Crowley ignores his question.

            They ride in silence all the way to the city gates. Minos is an island nation, small but beautiful, especially in the daytime. At night, the sky overhead is satin-black and glittering with stars. The ocean crashes against the cliffsides, and a woman can be heard screaming in pain all the way from the road.

            It would appear the queen has gone into labor.

            Crowley leads the way inside, having only to waves his hand to make the guards fall asleep. “So, what about you, Aziraphale?” he asks lowly, eyeing the angel in his pristine, white chiton and crown of golden laurels. “In Greece for business or pleasure?”

            Aziraphale feels almost silly admitting it after hearing what Crowley is here for, but he won’t lie. “Greece is just the most magnificent place,” he admits. “Have you read the works of Socrates? I’ve been collecting them. The man is genius, Crowley. Absolutely brilliant!”

            Crowley hums, vaguely wishing he had interest in such things. “I mostly drop by for the wine.”

            A single light spills into the dark hall, and it’s the room where the woman’s screams are coming from. Another set of armed guards stand outside the door, but they faint dead away as soon as Crowley approaches. The two of them, demon and angel, step into the queen’s birthing chamber, sticking to the shadows to remain unseen.

            They arrive just as the nurse wrestles the baby from its mother’s womb, wailing and covered in blood. And as much as it sounds like a human baby, all tiny full of tiny, pathetic cries, it couldn’t pass for a normal human baby even in this darkness.

            The baby Minotaur’s skin is covered in a thin layer of wispy fur, its feet are deformed and longer than they should be, ending in soft, hoof-like appendages. A thin, hairless tail like a rat’s whips around as it cries, and on top of its tiny head are a pair of bumps that will one day grow into horns.

            The nurse screams at the sight of it and very nearly drops the newborn onto the cold floor. Only its mother, said to be a half-goddess herself, manages to catch the child and bring it to the safety of her bosom.

            “Leave us,” Pasiphae orders, her voice hoarse from screaming. Her expression is black as night.

            The nurse, white-faced with terror, backpedals out of the chamber, hustling past Crowley and Aziraphale without ever noticing them.

            “So,” Aziraphale says, knowing that the queen can’t hear them. “What will you do, Crowley?”

            The demon stares at the writhing monster baby. Its shrieking has started to transform from the normal cries of a human into a more keening, monstrous wail. Its mother tries in vain to hush it, or risk drawing the guards, but her newborn is insatiable. It’s furious, right out of the womb. “I don’t know,” Crowley admits quietly.

 

* * *

 

Crowley does not do the job that night, nor the night after.

            Soon, the entire country knows of the Minotaur’s existence. The king is horrified but refuses to show it. Instead, he claims the monster as his own and gives it its famous name, telling all the people across Greece that Minos is now the mightiest kingdom in the land – for if anyone crosses them, the king will release the Minotaur upon them. Then, secretly, he hires an inventor by the name of Daedalus to design a cage to keep the beast.

            But a cage will never do. The thing is too strong.

            So, it must be a labyrinth. An elaborate prison that the Minotaur can never escape from. Aziraphale whispers the idea to Daedalus one night as the inventor sleeps. When he wakes, he starts the blueprints immediately and Aziraphale returns to the palace garden, where he and Crowley have been meeting every other Tuesday for the last six months.

            The angel is the first to arrive, but Crowley appears beside him moments later with a troubled look on his face.

            “Head office heard about the Minotaur,” he says darkly. “I made excuses but they want the job done.”

            “Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says sympathetically. He tells him the idea about the labyrinth, hoping that if they can get the creature trapped inside, then Crowley will never have to kill it. “Do you think your bosses will accept that?” he asks hopefully.

            Crowley thinks about it, his brow scrunched up. Eventually, he sighs. “I guess we’ll see,” he says, looking at Aziraphale over the tops of his glasses. If the angel didn’t know better, he’d almost say the Crowley looked impressed. “A labyrinth,” he says with half a grin. “That’s clever.”

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale’s idea works. At least, for a while.

            Both he and Crowley move on from Minos, hopping all across Greece and Europe for various heavenly/hellish duties. Neither of the head offices seem the wiser to the Minotaur’s true fate, so they let themselves forget about it.

            Aziraphale blesses a Roman inventor working on a thing called a “water wheel” that should improve things greatly.

            Crowley mostly lies on his paperwork and spends a lot of time in Scotland doing who-knows-what.

            About twenty years after the Minotaur’s birth, word gets back to Crowley that an Athenian king named Theseus is going to try to kill the Minotaur. He isn’t going to do anything about it – after all, the thing isn’t a baby anymore and it’s a fully-grown monster now. He has a lot less sympathy for fully-grown monsters – until Hastur shows up.

            Crowley is slumped over a bar inside of a Scottish inn when the black-eyed demon sits down beside him. He has a hood pulled over his head so the villagers won’t see his Hellish face, but Crowley knows him by his voice alone. Crusty and hateful like the rest of him.

            “So,” Hastur says. “You still haven’t killed the Minotaur.”

            “And why should I?” Crowley says, sipping his pint of ale. “From what I hear, a very famous Athenian king is going after it.”

            “Yes, but it was _your_ mission, Crowley. And you failed.”

            Crowley rolls his eyes. “It’s not failing if I _choose_ not to do it, _Hastur._ ”

            The other demon snarls under his breath. If it weren’t for the bulky, angry-looking Scotsmen in the inn, all covered in armor and swords, Hastur would attack Crowley right then and there, just out of spite. Instead, he takes a breath and says, “The head office is very angry with you, Crowley. Get it done,” he snaps. “Or else.”

            Then, he gets up and stalks out into the driving rain.

            Crowley barely moves. He stares straight ahead, scowling at the wall, and drains the rest of his drink in one swallow. “Another,” he says. The man behind the bar fills his wooden mug to the brim.

 

* * *

 

So, this is how it happens.

            Theseus, king of Athens, is not a hero in any sense of the word. He is not led through the labyrinth by a golden thread, nor does he kill the Minotaur. In fact, Theseus dies inside the labyrinth after wandering through its twisting halls for three days without water. Where these myths come from, Crowley has no idea. They’re all complete nonsense.

            Crowley finds the loser-king’s corpse about ten feet from the exit. The demon rolls his eyes and steps over the body, continuing down the corridor that will lead him to the monster. Crowley will not get lost. All he has to do is follow the stench of rotting flesh…

            The center chamber, where the Minotaur spends most of its time, is just ahead now, so Crowley plants himself against a wall and waits. Aziraphale arrives moments later, covering his mouth with a hankie and looking utterly disgusted by the entire, grim task.

            Still, Crowley is glad to see him. “You didn’t have to come,” he says.

            The angel waves the suggestion away and, without taking the hankie away, says, “No, no. I offered to come. It doesn’t help that this is a terrible thing to have to do in the first place, but it could also be dangerous.”

            Crowley breathes a laugh, and his tone is just a smidge affectionate when he says, “I can handle one monster, Aziraphale.”

            “I’m sure you can,” the angel agrees. “Just being cautious.”

            “Well, I appreciate it.” Aziraphale looks at him with genuine surprise and warmth, like that one statement was the nicest, kindest thing he’d ever heard.

            “What would you say to lunch?” the angel asks. “After this, of course. I know a wonderful little place in central Asia.”

            “It’s a date,” Crowley says, turning away as Aziraphale grins delightedly. It would be the first of many, many lunch dates. But first, they have to kill the Minotaur.

            Crowley steps into the central chamber with Aziraphale fluttering nervously on his heels. The place absolutely reeks of human sacrifice and Crowley can’t take two steps without bones breaking under his feet.

            “Oh, my Heavens,” Aziraphale mutters. “Is this what Hell looks like?”

            Crowley snorts. “No, angel.” He gazes around at the empty, dim room filled with bones and blood. “This place is a cheery country park compared to Hell.”

            “Oh…”

            “Now, where the devil is this thing?” Crowley asks, hands on his hips. “It’s supposed to be here.”

            “Maybe it stepped out for a bite to eat,” Aziraphale suggests weakly.

            As if on cue, that’s when the pair hears the heavy _clop, clop, clop_ of hooves on the stone floor – moving fast. Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s arm, wrenching him out of the doorway just as the Minotaur charges inside.

            It has grown since the last time they saw it.

            Now as tall as a man and covered head-to-toe in black fur, its eyes shine red with demonic fury and its horns are as thick are Crowley’s forearm and curve around its head like a ram’s.

            It snorts and digs at the floor with its hoof, narrowing its eyes.

            “Crowley,” Aziraphale says, gripping the demon’s arm.

            “Yeah?”

            “I do believe it would be prudent for us….at this time…to, um—”

            “Run very fast?” Crowley guesses.

            “Yes, exactly. Run very, very fast.”

            “Good idea.”

            They dive out of the way just as the Minotaur charges, faster than any man or bull could ever be. It flies by them, horns first. Crowley hits the stone floor on his shoulder and scrambles back to his feet. Aziraphale is across from him, also stumbling to get up.

            The monster screams in rage and turns on them once more, furious that it missed.

            “Minotaur!” Crowley calls loudly. He stands straight and rips off his glasses so the creature can see his yellow, slit eyes. It works. The monster hesitates, now sensing his demonic power. “I’ve been sent by your daddy to kill you,” he says, grinning wickedly. “So, be a nice bull-man and die quietly so you don’t scare my very nervous angel friend here.”

            Aziraphale huffs indignantly. “I am _not_ nervous!”

            “Shut up, Aziraphale,” Crowley says between gritted teeth, cutting the angel a look that says _be careful._

            The Minotaur growls and snorts, a bit of steam rising from its nostrils.

            Crowley sneers. “Oh, yeah, big boy? You’re going to defy me, really? _Me?_ ” He takes one threatening step closer and says something he’s kind of always wanted to say. “ _Don’t you know who I am?_ ”

Crowley smirks to himself and then quickly continues. “I am the serpent! I tempted Eve into biting the apple!” He stalks closer, and as impressive as his bravery is, Aziraphale has no Heavenly idea what his plan is until a blade materializes in Crowley’s hand, hidden behind his back as the demon gestures grandly with the other hand. The Minotaur is so distracted that it doesn’t even notice.

            “ _I_ tempted Paris into taking Helen from her husband. _I_ drove Achilles to get revenge on his lover’s murderer.” By now, Crowley is dangerously close to the Minotaur, but the monster seems uneasy. Its hoofed feet shuffle as Crowley skulks around it, and Aziraphale—despite his insistence that he is not _nervous—_ is feeling exactly that at the moment.

            Crowley circles around the Minotaur one more time, and stops behind it. Aziraphale can see the glint of steel in the darkness as his friend readies the knife.

            But that’s when everything goes wrong.

            See, what Crowley and Aziraphale don’t know, is that a group of soldiers from Athens have come searching for their king. With them are Theseus’s wife and band of small children, who have just discovered the king’s rotting corpse inside the mouth of the labyrinth.

            The queen’s horrified scream echoes all the way to the central chamber, startling the monster, angel, and demon inside.

            The Minotaur roars and bucks, cracking a beefy arm against Crowley’s jaw.

            The demon stumbles, dropping his blade – and that’s when the Minotaur charges. Not at Crowley, but at Aziraphale, who is feeling the black waves of sorrow rolling off Theseus’s family, and is so distracted by their grief that he doesn’t notice the 10-ton bull-man charging at him at the speed of light.

            “AZIRAPHALE!” Crowley cries.

            The angel spins, eyes wide.

            The force of impact knocks Aziraphale to the stone floor, where he strikes his head hard enough to see stars, but it doesn’t kill him. Probably because Crowley gets in the way.

            So, there’s good news and there’s bad news.

            Good news: just before Crowley leapt in between Aziraphale and the Minotaur, he manages to grab his blade and impale the beast just as its great horns connect with his sternum.

            Bad news: the Minotaur’s great horns connect with his sternum.

            As the monster collapses to the floor with a mewling, keening shriek like a heifer giving birth, Aziraphale pushes himself up, shaking his head. The room spins and when he touches the back of his hair, his fingers come away stained white-gold, the color of angelic blood.

            “Crowley?” he asks, blinking hard to clear the spots from his vision.

            Aziraphale gets clumsily to his feet, pinching the bridge of his nose. It all happened so fast, but in front of him is one dead Minotaur and clear across the room is the crumpled form of its killer – Crowley.

            “Oh!” Aziraphale pales and hurries over to him. The demon is laying on his side and his eyes are closed. His glasses are broken. “Crowley? Crowley?” Aziraphale flutters uncertainly beside him for a moment, briefly wondering how big a sin it is to help an injured demon. But then he decides he doesn’t care. Crowley just saved his life!

            It would be the first of many rescues in their 6,000-year friendship, but also the first time Aziraphale has ever feared for the demon’s safety.

            “Crowley? Are you all right? Crowley?”

            Gingerly, he lays a hand on the demon’s shoulder, shaking him lightly – but Crowley doesn’t move. Grimacing, Aziraphale looks skyward and mutters a quick prayer for forgiveness.

            “Let there be light,” he says, snapping his fingers. The room floods with a heavenly glow. Aziraphale rubs his hands together and gives himself a shake. It’s been a while since he’s performed a healing miracle. He can only hope they don’t do the opposite for demons…

            He lowers a hand and places it gently on Crowley’s forehead, which starts to glow. Almost instantly, the demon’s face relaxes, all traces of pain fading away. Aziraphale smiles and continues to let the healing light do its work for a few more moments. “There we are,” he says when it’s done. The angel takes his hand away and sits back, watching Crowley gradually rouse.

            The demon’s head lulls to the side, a low moan coming from deep in his chest. A clumsy hand reaches up to press into his forehead, and when his eyes open, they’re unfocused and sleepy, but still manage to find Aziraphale anyway. “Angel?” Crowley asks drowsily. “What are you doing in my flat?”

            Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and chuckles softly. “We’re not in your flat,” he says. “This is the labyrinth, remember? The Minotaur?”

            “Ohhh, yeah.” Crowley passes a hand over his eyes. “Did you kill it?”

            “Not me,” Aziraphale says. “You did. You saved my life, Crowley.”

            The hand drops away, suspicious yellow eyes flicking to the angel’s face. “Did I?”

            Aziraphale nods, still smiling.

            Crowley frowns. “Well, it was probably an accident.”

            “I don’t believe it was,” Aziraphale tells him, but Crowley ignores him and sits up. He’s a bit pale still, but otherwise unharmed – much to Aziraphale’s pleasure. The angel stands and offers Crowley a hand, with which the demon surprises him yet again by accepting it.

            Aziraphale pulls Crowley to his feet, brushing a bit of dust off his shoulder while the demon miracles his broken glasses and sets them back on his nose. Afterward, Crowley crosses his arms and studies Aziraphale closely.

            “So,” he says casually. “About that lunch.”

            Aziraphale’s face brightens. He’d almost forgotten. “Oh, yes! I know of this delightful little restaurant south of Crete! They do things with octopus there you wouldn’t believe!”

            “Can’t wait.”

           


	4. Stabbed

LONDON, SIX MONTHS AFTER THE APOCALYPSE THAT NEVER WAS

* * *

 

Crowley was right. Their respective sides _did_ leave them alone – for a time.

            But not nearly long enough.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale is working in the bookshop, tidying shelves of new releases and dusting stacks of books from a hundred years ago. No one rents these anymore but still, he likes to keep them around. The clutter is comforting for him, so opposite from the empty, white-steel and glass panes of Heaven. His bookshop is dimly lit, and warm, and cozy – always smelling of tea and biscuits and the lit fireplace crackling in the back.

            It’s been six months since that summer day when the world was supposed to end, and London feels like a very different city in the winter time. The fog clouding the tall windows of Aziraphale’s shop is crystallized with frost and a thin blanket of fresh snow has built up on the sill outside. But despite the weather, cars rumble by outside, shining their headlights into the store every so often, and passersby trudge through the snow with their umbrellas and collars raised.

            Maybe it’s the snow, or the late hour, but even the busy London street is quiet now – quiet enough for Aziraphale to hear the distinct _thump, thump, thump_ of musical percussion coming nearer and nearer… He sighs, sets down his feather duster, and snaps his finger, making a tray of liquor appear in the front room of the empty bookshop.

            He has a visitor.

            Surely enough, the black Bentley appears moments later and whips into a parking spot just outside the window. The front doors of the shop swing open without ever being touched, and Crowley strides in. Aziraphale smiles, half-tired, but half-pleased as well. He hasn’t seen Crowley for nearly a month, since he, especially, has had to take extreme precautions to avoid those from Hell who are pursuing him.

            The shop doors slam behind him and Crowley makes a beeline for the drinks. He doesn’t speak, or even say hello.

            Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and waits patiently while Crowley eagerly downs a tall glass of aged whiskey. Then another. Eventually, the angel clears his throat and Crowley glances over, peering at him over the tops of his sunglasses.

            “Be with you in a mo’,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale tilts his head. His companion’s voice is more gruff than usual, but he chooses not to bring it up. Who knows what Crowley has been up to of late, but he can be cagey at times. And he certainly doesn’t appreciate lots of personal questions right off the bat.

            So, instead, Aziraphale joins him in a glass of whiskey and asks, “Any news from your side—er, _former_ side?”

            Crowley swallows his mouthful of drink and sighs heavily, setting down his glass. “No,” he says without looking up. “And you’re still here, puttering around your bookshop, so I assume you haven’t heard from yours, either.”

            “Not a peep,” Aziraphale confirms. “Is it, perhaps, naïve to hope that they’ve decided to leave us alone?”

            Crowley’s long, pale fingers tap against the glass stopper of the bottle, obviously considering having another drink, but after a moment’s contemplation, he evidently decides against it. He still hasn’t looked directly at Aziraphale. “It’s never naïve to hope,” he says lowly. Surprisingly kind words, coming from a demon. Then again, Crowley is no ordinary demon.

            “Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks, touching his friend’s hand – the one still resting on top of the whiskey. Crowley can be cagey, yes, and sometimes difficult to read, certainly, but Aziraphale likes to think that he’s gotten to know the man in the 6,000 years since they met. He can tell when something is bothering him. And something is definitely bothering him.

            Crowley stares thoughtfully at their joined hands, a gesture which would have infuriated him not very long ago. The very fact that he doesn’t yell at Aziraphale for showing affection this way is proof enough of their improving relationship. “Of course,” he says, but then he _does_ pull his hand away and stalk across the bookshop into the back room.

            Aziraphale frowns and follows him. “Well, may I ask what brings you here?” he ventures.

            “What,” Crowley says, pretending to look over a shelf of books. Aziraphale can tell he isn’t really looking, though, or he would realize it’s a shelf of French cookbooks. “Do I suddenly need a reason to drop by and visit my friend?”

            “Of course not,” Aziraphale assures him. “You’re always welcome here, Crowley.” As pleasant as their polite back-and-forth is, it’s growing a bit tiresome – even for an angel. “But, as your friend, I do hope that you would feel secure enough to tell me what’s got you so frightened, Crowley…” Aziraphale finally says, folding his hands behind his back.

            Crowley looks at him for the first time, directly in the eyes, and the very fact that he opens his mouth, then shuts it without ever having said anything is proof enough that Aziraphale got the nail on the head. Even sass-king Crowley, who would literally die rather than have the last word, can’t come up with a feasible argument.

            Well, not a good one, anyway. “Clever-clogs,” Crowley grumbles in distaste before turning to face Aziraphale for the first time since he darkened the angel’s doorstep. “All right, fine,” he relents. “I may be in…well, a little bit—and I mean the _tiniest,_ most _minute_ , most _insignificant_ —”

            “Crowley!” Aziraphale complains.

            The demon grimaces. “Spot of trouble,” he concludes.

            Ah, there we go.

            “What sort of trouble?” Aziraphale asks.

            “Well, ah…” It’s so clear how much it physically pains Crowley to ask for help, from anybody – even his best friend in the entire universe. “Some demons broke into my flat today,” he admits, and Aziraphale’s eyes widen.

            “Oh, my Lord!”

            “Yeah, well, I got away. Obviously. But I can’t go back just yet. They’ll be watching the whole neighborhood for me. I can’t even get close without them smelling me…”

            “Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says sympathetically. He knows how important Crowley’s flat is to him. There are basically only three or four things in the whole world that Crowley cares about at all: his car, his plants, and his flat. “I’m so sorry.”

            “It’s fine, it’s fine,” the demon assures him, trying to seem like he doesn’t care – that this is just a minor inconvenience. “And, look, I hate to do this to you, but do you think I could crash here? Just until the dust settles. Obviously.”

            “Of course,” Aziraphale says. “You don’t even have to ask!”

            Crowley gives him a flat little smile and says thanks, but there’s no relief in his posture. He’s stressed, and Aziraphale can’t blame him. It’s only been six months since the apocalypse that never was, and the demons are already chasing after him. They’d hoped they would have a bit more time to recover before having to run for their lives – but evidently, the forces of Hell are still a bit wound up.

            Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure why, but he desperately wants Crowley to stop worrying. He’s normally so cool and aloof. Stress doesn’t suit him. “Ohh, buck up!” he tries, playfully punching Crowley’s shoulder. This would prove to be a mistake of frankly startling measure.

            “Ahh!” Crowley gasps, jumping back and grabbing his shoulder – which Aziraphale barely touched! He doesn’t recover quickly either, instead nearly doubling over, breathing hard through gnashed teeth.

            “Good Heavens,” Aziraphale says, still squeezing the offending hand close to his chest. “What’s the matter!”

            “Nothing,” Crowley grinds out. He straightens a bit and tests the shoulder with a little shrug, but his face never relaxes. His brow is crunched and his jaw is tight.

            “ _Nothing,_ my behind!” the angel argues, worried, and annoyed, and annoyed that he has to be worried. “You’re obviously injured, Crowley! Why don’t you heal yourself?”

            “I said I’m fine,” Crowley growls, eyeing Aziraphale dangerously. “Back off, angel.” He starts to stalk away again, but Aziraphale doesn’t give up. Stubbornly, he follows.

            “I shan’t! If you won’t heal yourself, perhaps I should.” He reaches out toward Crowley. After all, one touch is all it will take—

            But the demon whirls on him, snapping furiously with a mouthful of venomous snake-teeth and Aziraphale has no choice but to jump back.

            “Crowley!” he huffs. “What’s gotten into you!”

            Crowley looks like he’s about to come back with some acid-tongued remark, but he stumbles first, knocking into one of Aziraphale’s bookshelves. A few texts thump to the floor and Crowley has to catch himself on the edge of the nearby table. When he does, his blazer sleeve rides up an inch, revealing a wrist stained black with demonic blood.

            Aziraphale feels his blood go cold. “Oh, Crowley…”

            The demon takes a moment to breathe before straightening up again. When he does, the aggression has drained from his posture and he looks almost ashamed. “I can’t heal it,” he mumbles, carefully peeling back his shirt to peer underneath. Whatever he sees must not please him by the look on his face. “And neither can you. It’s too deep. A surge of angelic power that strong would draw attention from both sides. It’s too dangerous.”

            Aziraphale comes closer, his face twisted with concern. “But you’re bleeding, Crowley! Quite a lot!”

            “I’ll live…” the demon grunts, still gripping the wounded shoulder. Aziraphale pulls a chair over and steers his injured friend into it. Crowley collapses into the butter-soft leather and a deep sigh drains out of him. He leans his head back into the wall and closes his eyes, and he looks exhausted.

            “Still,” Aziraphale ventures, careful not to push the demon’s temper too far. “Perhaps I should take a look. Just to be safe. I have read a number of medical journals, you know. I know a thing or two about human medicine that could help.”

            For the first time, Crowley chuckles. He pulls off his sunglasses and tosses them haphazardly aside, probably tired of wearing them constantly. “Human medicine,” he mimics, rubbing his eyes. “Do you really think human- _anything_ applies to us, Aziraphale?”

            Aziraphale gives it a serious moment’s thought. “I don’t know,” he says lightly. “But we’ll never know unless we try.”

            “Ahh, I don’t—”

            “And allow me to remind you of what happens if your body fails, my dear. Your noncorporeal form will be sucked straight back into Hell and right into the laps of your enemies…”

            Crowley makes a face like _bloody hell…_ “All right, fine,” he finally relents. “Play doctor. If it will shut you up.”

            “Very nice, Crowley. Very charming.”

            So, Crowley strips off his jacket and tosses it to the floor. Aziraphale picks it up and hangs it neatly beside his on the coat rack while Crowley removes his vest—tossing that as well, much to the angel’s irritation—and then works on carefully yanking off his tie.

            The tee-shirt underneath is startling. The red-grey fabric is stained black from the collar to the belly on Crowley’s entire right side. Smack-dab in the center of the darkest stains is a hole exactly the right size for a kitchen knife. The wound isn’t terribly new, Aziraphale can see, but it’s still gushing black blood.

            “Like I said,” Crowley mutters, seeing Aziraphale’s face. “Too much to heal.”

            “Crowley…” Aziraphale says. “My dear friend, if something isn’t done about this wound, you _will_ discorporate! And sooner rather than later, I’m afraid!”

            Crowley, sinking ever further into his chair, nods and says, “I know.” His eyes are half-lidded like he’s growing sleepy, even though demons don’t need to sleep. “Well? You’re the clever doctor, angel. Do something. Stop me discorporating.” He doesn’t sound particularly urgent, or confident, but Aziraphale gets to work immediately anyway.

            The first thing the humans always do in their books is stop the bleeding. _We have to stop the bleeding,_ they’re always saying. So, Aziraphale supposes that’s as good a place to start as any. He rushes into the tiny restroom off the side of his shop and grabs the medical kit on the wall. He has no idea what’s inside. Or how to use it.

            He drops the small kit in front of Crowley clicks open the snaps. Inside are rolls of bandages, packets of alcohol wipes, tubes of various creams and ointments, band-aids, and other assorted things. Unfortunately, this particular kit seems to be geared towards your run-of-the-mill bump or bruise – not a life-threatening stab wound.

            “Ohh, alcohol wipes?” Crowley says, picking one up. He gives the packet a sniff and makes a face. “Smells strong.”

            “I don’t think it’s that sort of alcohol, Crowley,” Azirphale mutters, frowning over his supplies. Where to start? There’s nothing in here designed to stop this level of blood loss, so Azirphale glances around his shop and his gaze settles on the coat rack. There’s been a red, winter scarf hanging there for at least two years, ever since some unfortunate customer left it behind. Aziraphale grabs it, balls it up into a tight knot, and starts to approach Crowley with it.

            The demon pulls back, eyeing the scarf suspiciously. “What’s that for?” he demands.

            “To stop the bleeding,” Aziraphale says. “We have to create an obstruction with which to catch the flow of blood, causing it to clot and stop bleeding.” He lifts the scarf. “Obstruction, located.”

            Crowley doesn’t seem convinced. “Are you sure?”

            “ _Yes_ , Crowley. I’ve read it dozens of times. I just needed a proper apparatus.”

            “And that scarf is a ‘ _proper apparatus’_?” Crowley asks, mocking the angel’s voice. The imitation is not very flattering.

            “Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale says, officially exasperated. “Just shut up and let me work!”

            Crowley frowns and mutters a few insults under his breath, but obediently shuts up. He stiffens as Aziraphale lays the scarf over his wound and starts to apply pressure. Immediately, the demon starts to squirm, first in his legs – which jiggle up and down like a nervous tic, then his hands that he balls up and stretches out, digging into the arm of the chair.

            “Are you in pain?” Aziraphale asks. His blue eyes are wide and particularly innocent-looking at the moment, which is both irritating _and_ irritatingly adorable to Crowley. _Wait!_ Not _adorable,_ in the sense that he thinks Aziraphale is—rather, like ‘capable of being adored’ and…oh, shut up.

            “Oh, no,” Crowley says through gritted teeth. “This is delightful.”

            Aziraphale purses his lips. “Cheeky.”

            “Are you nearly finished?” Crowley groans, having to hold himself down to stay in the chair.

            “I’m…not sure,” Aziraphale admits, studying the scarf. “On humans, this process requires quite a bit of time, depending of the severity of the wound. Do you happen to know how long it takes demon blood to clot?”

            Crowley huffs, squirming in his chair, trying in vain to get more comfortable. “I don’t even know if demon blood _does_ clot.”

            “Oh, joyous days…”

            “Yeah…”

            “Perhaps I should…check the wound.” Aziraphale says, looking at Crowley for permission. The demon makes a face like, _do whatever you want,_ and so Aziraphale gently lifts the scarf. The moment he does, two things happen.

  1. Black blood oozes over his hand like tar out of a kitchen faucet.



     And 2. The bells above the bookshop door jingle, despite the door being locked.

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange alarmed stares as the smell of evil wafts into the back room. “Stay here,” Crowley says, struggling to get up. “I’ll get rid of them.”

“No!” Aziraphale protests, holding him back. “You’re injured! You would stand no chance against even one demon right now.” He pushes the bloodied scarf into Crowley’s hands and steers him away. “Let me handle it.”

“Aziraphale—” Crowley starts to argue, but the angel puts a finger to his lips and points toward the back of the study with a very serious look on his face.

“Just trust me.”

Crowley doesn’t look pleased, but he allows Aziraphale to hurry out the door. Aziraphale stops only long enough to smooth his jacket and straighten his bowtie before pushing through the door into the shop.

Two demons are waiting for him when he does.

“May I help you?” Aziraphale asks, nose in the air.

“Where is he?” the first demon demands. Her hair is long and the color of dust. It falls in stringy pieces across her face.

“Where is who?” Aziraphale asks, folding his arms.

“Your boyfriend,” the other clarifies with a scowl. “Crowley.”

“Ahh.” Aziraphale nods, then wanders over to pick up his feather duster again. He casually cleans off a stack of French romance novels while he pretends to think. “I haven’t a clue,” he lies easily. “I haven’t seen Crowley since the Apocalypse.”

“You mean the Apocalypse the two of you _stopped?_ ”

Aziraphale turns and gives the crusty-looking demons a sneer. “Yes, that one, as a matter of fact.”

The first demon is growing impatient. She growls and charges closer, but stops when Aziraphale raises his hand. There may be two of them, but even a single angel is still capable of smiting demons. And she knows it. “We know he came here,” she snarls. “So, hand the traitor over and we’ll leave you and your precious bookshop in peace.”

Aziraphale looks the demon right in her snotty, black eyes when he says, “Listen to me very carefully, demons. Crowley did not come here. As I said, I haven’t seen him since we parted ways after Armageddon.”

“And why should we believe you?” the second demon snaps. “This whole shop _stinks_ of snake!”

“Because I am an angel. We do not lie.”

“HA! Yeah, you’re an angel all right. You betrayed Heaven, Aziraphale!” the dusty-haired demon says. “You’re about as trustworthy as Crowley himself!”

“Are you insinuating that I have Fallen?” Aziraphale steps closer, feeling a bit satisfied when the demons move back in response. He isn’t used to throwing his weight around. Usually, Crowley is the one who makes the threats, but…desperate times. “Then I shall behave like a Fallen.”

With a snap of his fingers, a glowing sword of celestial metal appears in Aziraphale’s hand. He points it at the demons and, channeling his best inner-Crowley, he says, “Get out of my shop. And pray to your Master that I never see you again.”

The demons grimace, but flee all the same.

Aziraphale waits until he’s certain they’re gone before grinning and tossing his sword to the side. “Crowley!” he says, hurrying back to the study. “Did you hear all that? I was rather intimidating, wasn’t I?”

He pushes open the door and finds Crowley leaning against the wall, just where he left him. The demon smiles tightly but there’s pain in his eyes and blood leaking onto the floor.

“I’m impressed, angel,” he says. “Who knew you could be intimidating?” And then he slips and falls to one knee.

Aziraphale helps him back into his chair and looks at the wound. The bleeding hasn’t slowed at all and now Crowley is breathing hard, his face nearly grey. Aziraphale can practically feel him discorporating as they speak. And if he does that, it’s all over. The demons will have him, and they’ll destroy him…

“I need to heal you,” Aziraphale says. Immediately, Crowley shakes his head.

“No.”

“Before you argue, just listen to me, Crowley! You are dying! You need help!”

“At least if I die, they only get one of us,” Crowley says, deadly serious. “If you heal me now, the joined forces of Heaven and Hell will descend on this bookshop and destroy us both. You know it’s true.”

Sometimes, Aziraphale finds it difficult to believe that Crowley is a demon. This is _not_ one of those times. “What an incredibly selfish perspective!” the angel says, outraged.

“Selfish?” Crowley says. “I’m worried about you, you idiot! How is that selfish?”

“Rather than _trying_ to stay alive, you would prefer to die and leave me alone--!”

“I don’t _want_ to die, Aziraphale!”

“--Just so you don’t have to carry the guilt of putting me in danger! Well, guess what, Crowley? If we both die, neither of us has any guilt and at least _we’ll be together_!” Aziraphale practically shouts. His face is red and his chest is puffed up.

Crowley stares with unblinking yellow eyes. He’s never seen the angel so righteously angry before, and that’s saying something – considering angels are all about righteous anger. It’s sort of in the job description.

And then there’s this whole _together_ business…

Crowley shifts uncomfortably. “Well, what do _you_ want to do, then? Suicide pact?” he smiles wickedly, but Aziraphale doesn’t think it’s funny.

“We’ll go somewhere,” Aziraphale decides, “and heal you there, so the ‘joined forces of Heaven and Hell’ will descend there instead of here. Hopefully, that will give us time to evacuate before they arrive. And, if we’re lucky, they won’t realize it was us.”

Seems like a long-shot to Crowley. “Do you really think that’ll work?”

“It’s better than you dying.”

 

* * *

 

And where better to heal a dying demon than St. James’s Park?

            At nearly 3 o’clock in the morning, the park is blessedly deserted. Aziraphale helps Crowley out of the car and, together, they limp toward the water. Crowley has weakened considerably in the last few minutes, and he’s barely on his feet. Aziraphale supports most of his weight, and lowers him to the grass.

            All around them, the crickets, and birds, and night animals have gone silent – sensing the presence of a demon. The only sound at all is the lapping of the water against the shoreline, and Crowley’s raspy breathing.

            Aziraphale sits beside him with one hand on his friend’s chest and the other on the hilt of the sword, which he made sure to bring with him – just in case. He isn’t sure what one sword will be worth if Heaven decides to send an entire battalion, but he feels better having it with him.

            “All right,” Aziraphale says, readying himself. “I’m going to heal you as fast as I can, and then we’ll have to run. Got it?”

            Crowley barely nods. He’s doing his best to stay awake, but he’s fighting a losing battle.

            Aziraphale flexes his fingers…

            --And then disaster strikes.  

            An invisible force sends Aziraphale sailing through the air. He crashes into the lake, startling a whole flock of ducks that had been resting in the cat tails nearby. They squawk and flap into the sky, shrieking the whole way.

            The angel flails until his head is above water, and as he’s wiping it from his eyes, he sees what threw him: the demons are back. The same two from the bookshop, and they’re standing over Crowley, who has a panicked look on his face. When he tries to get up, the dusty-haired demon kicks him squarely in the ribs and laughs.

            “NO!” Aziraphale cries, struggling to get to land.

            The demons laugh and circle Crowley like hyenas around a baby antelope. The second demon glances over his shoulder and then quickly says to other, “Better hurry. Mummy is on his way.”

            A lance, black as night and tipped with a red blade, materializes in the first demon’s hand. She smiles down at Crowley, who glares definitely up at her.

            The demon raises her lance, and just as Aziraphale reaches the shore, the weapon sails down and hit its mark.

            Except, here’s a thing you should always keep in mind when attacking The Serpent: he can, in fact, turn into a serpent. Which means, if striking downward with a demonic lance, one should always be sure to aim directly for The Serpent’s midsection – or risk missing your target entirely when he transforms.

            The demon screams in frustration as Crowley slithers away. She yanks at her lance, but its point is stuck deep in the earth.

            Aziraphale scrambles onto the grass, his suit drenched, his shoes filled with water. But the moment Crowley is wrapped around his ankles, Aziraphale thrusts out his hand, which glows hotly with heavenly light – and the demons begin to scream.

            At this distance, between the two of them, it won’t be enough to kill them. But the burns from divine light will certainly send them scrambling back to Hell to lick their wounds.           

            Which is exactly what happens.

            Aziraphale lowers his hand, breathing hard, and looks down at the black serpent coiled around his feet. “All right, they’re gone,” he says. A moment later, the snake turns back into a man.

            “Oh, for the love of everything diabolical!” Crowley complains, holding his shoulder. “Get it over with, angel, before something else horrible drops on our heads!”

            “Agreed.” Aziraphale wastes no more time. He settles to his knees beside Crowley and places a hand on the wounded shoulder, muttering a quick prayer to the Almighty before pouring divine power into his friend’s body.

            The stab wound stitches closed and Crowley visibly relaxes. Black blood flakes away, disappearing into the air like gory confetti. When the deed is done, all Crowley wants to do is lay there regain his strength, but Aziraphale isn’t having it.

            “Come on,” the angel says, roughly pulling him to his feet.

            The residual pain causes Crowley to moan and stagger, but Aziraphale pulls him along, back toward the Bentley. They’re just throwing open their doors when both angel and demon go stiff as chills run down their backs.

            “They’re coming,” Aziraphale says shakily. “Gabriel, Michael, Sandalphon, all of them!”

            “Same here,” Crowley says, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Hastur, Beelzebub, Dagon…”

            “Perhaps I should drive,” Aziraphale says nervously.

            “No way.”

            “But what if you pass out at the wheel!”

            “I won’t.” Crowley snaps his fingers and the car rumbles to life, headlights flooding the darkness, _I Want To Break Free_ blasting on the radio. “Besides,” he says, placing a new pair of sunglasses over his glowing, yellow eyes. “We’re gonna need to drive fast.”

            Aziraphale hates the diabolical smile that flashes across the demon’s face, and he’s already grabbing onto the seat for dear life as Crowley slams on the gas.

            Tyres screech on the asphalt as the Bentley peels out into the night, tearing out of St. James’s Park at a solid 100 miles per hour. Maybe faster. Aziraphale is too terrified to look.

 

* * *

 

Needless to say, the forces of Heaven and Hell don’t stand a chance in catching up to them. Nor do Aziraphale and Crowley feel particularly concerned that their enemies will be able to find them before the duo has blown town.

            “So, where are you thinking of going?” Aziraphale asks as he stows a few of his most precious belongings into a suitcase. Mostly books, his angel-wing mug, and—when Crowley isn’t looking—the apple-patterned bow tie Crowley gave him on Christmas of 1969. It was a gag gift, but Aziraphale has hung onto it ever since.

            Crowley blows air through his lips. He’s keeping watch out the front window. His hands are in his pockets and his posture is loose and sauntering – in other words, back to normal. “I don’t know,” he says. “Haven’t been to American for a while.”

            “America,” Aziraphale says. “That should be exciting. Vegas, casinos, bars – the perfect place for a demon to stir up some trouble.”

            Crowley snorts. “I’ve had enough trouble for a while,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Besides, I was thinking more like New York. That feels like more my speed.”

            “Ahh, New York,” Aziraphale says dreamily. “Eleven Madison Park, The Metropolitan Museum of Art…”

            Crowley snickers at the angel’s excitement. “I take it you’ve been there,” he surmises.

            “Oh, yes. Many times. I always said I would go back, but with the bookshop, and the antichrist, and Armageddon…” Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose I just haven’t had the time.”

            Crowley turns to give him a steady look behind his shades. “You know,” he says, leaning casually on the shelf beside him. “We could go together.”

            Aziraphale works very hard not to let his face betrays how wonderful that sounds. “Together?” he asks.

            “Well, yeah.” Crowley shrugs. “I mean, we both have to blow town for a while anyway. No reason we can’t go together.”

            “You know.” Aziraphale steps closer, lugging his suitcase. “It would probably be safer if we _did_ travel together. After all, what if one of us gets in trouble? The other would have to get to them quickly.”

            “Yeah, you’re right,” Crowley agrees, nodding very seriously. “It would be much safer for us to just…stay together.”

            Finally, Aziraphale can hold it no longer, and he smiles a big, bright smile. “Well, then! It’s settled!” He snaps his fingers and the door to the bookshop swings open. “To New York!”

            Crowley chuckles and swaggers outside. “To New York,” he agrees. As they pile into the Bentley and Crowley pulls away from the curb, he asks, “What about your bookshop? Is it going to be all right until we get back?”

            “Oh, it’ll be fine,” Aziraphale assures him. “What about your houseplants?”

            “Oh, don’t worry about them,” Crowley says. “It doesn’t matter if we’re gone for ten years. They won’t wilt.” He smirks to himself in that evil way that sort of makes Aziraphale want to roll his eyes, and also makes him want to grin. “They wouldn’t dare.”

           

           

           


	5. Demon Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay. I don't write these chapters ahead of time so, while I try to get one chapter out per day, any inconvenience threatens that schedule. I had a pretty bad migraine yesterday, which definitely hindered the process and I've been helping my sister move into her new place - so that's my excuse lol
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

LONDON, 2 YEARS AFTER THE APOCALYPSE THAT NEVER WAS

* * *

 

Crowley has a new neighbor, a young woman named Martha. Martha Miller.

Crowley has lived in the same building for fifty years and never known a single one of his neighbors. So, the very fact that he knows Miss Miller’s name is proof of trouble.

Martha is a culinary student. She attends a community college near the flat and spends most of her nights studying and baking. She is a sweet girl, with round cheeks and doe-eyes, and a bubbling laugh like a fairy. She’s also highly spiritual. But not in the fun, witchy way that young women sometimes are. No, Martha is no fun at all.

Crowley caught a glimpse of her flat once as he was taking the lift to his penthouse. Martha clambered on with a heavy backpack and arms loaded down with textbooks. She smiled, introduced herself, and as the lift doors slid shut, even complimented Crowley’s black, paisley jacket. For a brief moment, Crowley decided he liked this young lady.

Then he saw her flat and decided, no. He did not like her.

First of all, there was the smell. Maybe the overwhelming stench of incense, candles, and herbs is pleasant to humans (and Aziraphale, for some reason), but to him – it smelled like a demonic asthma attack waiting to happen. Then, there were the crosses on the walls, the dream catchers, the horseshoe she’d nailed over the door… Everything about the modest, little flat below his screamed _stay away!_ in demon-language.

“Well, this is me,” Martha said, stepping off the lift.

Crowley wasn’t going to say anything. Why encourage neighborly friendship when this serendipitous meeting would probably never occur again? But then he noticed her necklace – a spiraling, metal cage with a stone sitting in the middle. “What’s that?” he asked, holding the lift doors open with his mind. Martha didn’t even notice.

“Oh, this?” She lifted the stone. “It’s onyx,” she said. “It protects against evil.”

“Ah.” Crowley let the doors shut. No wonder he had a headache.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale has never been to Crowley’s flat.

            Well, actually, Crowley has had several hundred different residences over the millennia—as has Aziraphale—and the angel has been to nearly every one at least once. But this _current_ flat, Aziraphale has never visited.

Not because he doesn’t want to, or because Crowley doesn’t want him to – but because of the impending apocalypse keeping them busy, and the strain from their “arrangement,” and needing to keep up pretenses for their respective sides. Getting to visit the demon’s place of residence is always a challenge – but a challenge he meets every time, eventually.

But now Armageddon is canceled and Aziraphale figures, why not?

He stops to get chocolates and flowers on the way. It’s become a sort of tradition for them, bringing chocolate and flowers to new flats, and houses, and—most recently—bookshops. Crowley started it, believe it or not, all the way back in the 15th century. He was in a very good mood that day, very likely because he hated the 14th century so much and was glad to be rid of it.

So, Aziraphale steps out of his taxi in front of the tall, modern apartment building with its huge windows and black brick. It’s sleek and stylish, and _very_ Crowley. The angel smiles to himself as he climbs the stairs.

            Shifting Crowley’s gifts into one arm, Aziraphale presses the buzzer next to the plaque that reads, “A.J. Crowley.”

            “Yes?” comes his friend’s voice, marred by static from the intercom.

            “Welcome wagon!” Aziraphale says happily. “And only half a century late.”

            The front doors buzz and Aziraphale steps inside and goes straight for the lift, which politely opens ahead of him as if by magic. Or demonic intervention, whichever comes first.

            “Hold the lift, please!”

            Aziraphale grabs the doors to keep them open while the young woman hurries inside. Her arms are loaded down with French and Italian cookbooks, and she looks like she’s going to fall down under the weight of her bag.

            “Thank you,” the young woman says. She struggles to get her load into one arm and then holds out her hand. “Hello, I’m Martha. I just moved here.” Aziraphale shakes her hand, smiling pleasantly. “Do you live in the building?”

            “Oh, no. I’m just here visiting a friend—ah, can I help you with those?” Martha starts to protest, but Aziraphale takes some of the books anyway and she sighs gratefully.

            “Thank you, um…”

            “Oh, Mr. Fell,” Aziraphale says.

            “Mr. Fell,” she repeats, committing it to memory. “So, who are you here to see?”

            “Oh, um, Anthony Crowley,” Aziraphale says, deciding he will never get used to using his friend’s fake first name. “He lives—”

            “In the penthouse, yeah. I just met him a few days ago. He seemed…” She pauses, obviously trying to think of a nice way to phrase it.

            “Let me guess, strange?” Aziraphale says, grinning as the numbers on the screen climb higher and higher. “Maybe rude?” Martha blushes nervously and tries to ramble out some denial, but Aziraphale just laughs and says, “Don’t take it personally, my dear. He’s like that with everyone.”

            That’s when the doors open on Martha’s floor. She takes her books back and steps out, waving awkwardly under her burden, and then disappears inside a flat that practically glows with positive energy and love. Aziraphale breathes in the smell deeply before the lift doors shut and he ascends one more floor, to a flat that feels very much the opposite of the young lady’s.

            Crowley’s door is pitch-black with a steel knocker in the shape of a dragon’s head. Except the dragon is particularly fearsome, with its jaw open like it’s about to shoot flames at the next person who dares to knock. Aziraphale shakes his head and knocks anyway.

            The door opens by itself.

            Aziraphale pokes his head in, but Crowley is nowhere to be seen, so he steps inside and calls out, “Crowley?”

            “Come on in, Aziraphale!” comes the reply from somewhere, so the angel closes the door behind him and wanders in. The entryway is fairly spacious, with black-tiled floors and high, concrete walls, and there’s hardly anything inside. Just a grey loveseat under a window with a drinks cart beside it, and one rather curious statue.

            It appears to be two nude, male angels wrestling – or, Aziraphale _assumes_ they’re merely wrestling. Aziraphale is examining it when Crowley appears.

            “Caught your eye, has it?” the demon asks. Aziraphale looks up, surprised, and smiles at his friend. Crowley’s hair is a bit mussed, like he just woke up from a nap, and though he’s dressed, his black, silk shirt is half-pulled out of his waistline. He scratches the stubble on his chin and swaggers over to the statue. “I got it during the Spanish Inquisition. A very bright, young artist,” he says.

            “It’s, um…” Aziraphale feels awkward, for some reason, and tries not to look at the questionable piece of art. “Very striking.” He pats it blindly, only to glance over and realize he’s patting the top angel’s bum.

            Of course, Crowley thinks that’s very funny.

            “Oh, shut up, you.” Aziraphale shoves the box of chocolate and flowers at the cackling demon. “I’ll bet you didn’t really get it in the Spanish Inquisition, did you?”

            “Nah, picked it up last month from a drugs-bust auction in Manchester,” he says, rubbing his eyes. Crowley opens the box of chocolates, pops one into his mouth, and then offers a piece to Aziraphale. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, angel?”

            Aziraphale follows Crowley deeper into the flat, which is decorated much the same as the foyer: lots of black walls and floors, rich, gold accents, and the occasional piece of art. They stop in a study-like room with an ornate desk, the original Mona Lisa, and a high-backed red-and-gold throne for a chair. “No particular reason, really,” Aziraphale says, trying to sound casual about it the way one does when one has been missing one’s best friend but not wanting to sound sappy. “I hope I haven’t come at an inopportune time.”

            “No, no.” Crowley waves the suggestion away. “You’re always welcome, you know that.” And that’s the thing with Crowley – he sometimes says such heart-warming things, but in such a natural way that it could almost pass as nothing. Almost.

            “That’s very kind,” Aziraphale says, smiling to himself.

            Crowley gives him a withering look – probably because of the word _kind._ “Funny that you should stop by though,” he says, deciding to move on. “I was thinking of giving you a call.”

            “Really?” Aziraphale says, brightening.

            “Yeah, I thought we might get dinner, if you like.” Crowley stands and saunters into the next room. When he comes back, his clothes are much more put-together, though his hair is still a mess. Although, Crowley’s hair could be wind-whipped and slept on and still sort of pass as stylized in a messy sort of way. “You pick the place, I miracle the bill.”

            “It’s a date,” Aziraphale says, delighted. In fact, he’s so pleased he doesn’t quite notice the brand-new aroma wafting into the flat from downstairs. It must come through the vents, which Crowley had been blocking until Aziraphale’s arrival distracted him.

            Crowley notices, however. He doesn’t have the option _not_ to.

            All of a sudden, the demon’s face twists up he sort of folds over, cursing and grimacing and covering his mouth. “Bugger all!” he grouses.

            “Crowley? Crowley, what’s wrong?”

            “What do you mean, _what’s wrong?_ Can’t you smell it?” As Crowley coughs and flees into another room, Aziraphale takes a delicate sniff of the air, and— _oh._ It’s that delightful smell again, the one from downstairs. Cedar, frankincense, and—oh my. Sage.

            Oh, dear.

            Aziraphale flicks the vents shut with a wave of his hand and hurries after Crowley. The demon is hunched over when Aziraphale finds him, gasping and coughing until he’s red in the face.

            Sage, like many purifying herbs, is a problem for demons. Most of these plants are mild irritants, causing things like light-headedness, skin irritation, and maybe a slight weakening of one’s demonic power. _Sage,_ however, is the grand-poohbah of these herbs and is much more annoying. Bordering on dangerous.

            “I’ve closed the vents,” Aziraphale tells Crowley. “Are you all right?”

            But Crowley is too busy trying to breathe to answer, so Aziraphale decides the smoke must still be too thick inside the flat. Flexing his shoulders, he wills his wings to materialize, then beats them a few times to clear the air.

            Crowley’s condition improves quickly after that. He slides to the floor, surrounded by his houseplants, and takes a few deep gulps of clean oxygen. “Thanks,” he finally manages.

            “My dear,” Aziraphale says, kneeling beside him with a great show of concern on his face. “You very nearly discorporated! How long as this been going on?”

            Crowley casts a hateful glare at the floor between his feet. “Oh, ever since that _Martha_ moved in,” he growls, picking himself up, “I have half a mind to flood her flat with snakes,” he murmurs angrily.

            “Why don’t you just, I don’t know, file a complaint with the landlord?”

            Crowley gives him a flat look. “Aziraphale. I am a demon. I do not _file complains with the landlord,_ ” he says mockingly.

            Aziraphale huffs and plants his hands on his hips. “All right, then, what do _you_ want to do? Kill her?” he demands, incredulously. Honestly, Crowley can be such a crab at times!

            And, just to prove Aziraphale’s point, Crowley pretends to consider it…

            “ _Crowley!_ ”

            “Oh, I’m only teasing!” Crowley says. “I already told you what I want to do…”

            “Oh, yes. That’s very good, Crowley. Fill the poor girl’s flat with snakes. And what, exactly would that accomplish?”

            “Absolutely not a thing,” Crowley agrees wholeheartedly. “But it would be hilarious.”

            “How about,” Aziraphale suggests, already heading for the door. “I go speak with the young lady.”

            Crowley sighs and folds his arms. “Fine!” he calls after the angel. “But if it doesn’t work, I’m releasing the snakes!”

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale takes the lift down one floor and knocks politely on Martha Miller’s door. Personally, he loves the smell of sage. It smells clean and rather heavenly. But it’s making Crowley sick and he can’t stand for that.

            “Coming!” says a voice from inside. There are light, rapid footsteps and then the door opens, showing a disheveled-looking Martha Miller followed by a cloud of white smoke. “Oh,” she says, a little out of breath. “Mr. Fell. How good to see you again.”

            Aziraphale smiles, inwardly pleased with the girl’s good manners. “And it is very nice to see you again, Miss Miller. May I speak with you a moment? I’m afraid it’s very important.”

            “Oh. Well—” She glances into her apartment but quickly relents. “Yeah, of course. Come in.” Aziraphale accepts and comes inside, so Martha closes the door behind him. Her living room is a bit sparse, comprised mostly of unpacked boxes and a sofa covered in plastic. There’s a stepladder in the middle of the whole mess, position under the ceiling vent which has inconveniently snapped shut. On a coffee table pushed against the wall is a still-smoking bundle of sage.

            “Sorry for the mess,” Martha says.

            “Oh, no. Don’t worry at all. I’ve done my share of moving over the years.” Aziraphale wills the sage to go out and it politely obeys.

            “Care for a biscuit? Cup of tea?”

            “Oh, um, I’d better not, thank you. I really must be getting back upstairs to my friend, but I had a favor to ask of you.”

            “A favor?” Martha asks.

            “Well, yes. You see, Mr. Crowley is a tad asthmatic and I’m afraid that your herb-burning has been causing him a spot of trouble.”

            “Oh, my stars!” Martha spins around, obviously planning on putting out the sage, only to find it out already. “I’m so sorry!” she says. “I had no idea!”

            “It’s all right, it’s all right,” Aziraphale soothes. “There’s no harm done. But if you could just refrain from any more herb-burning, that would tickety-boo.”

            “Of course!” Martha agrees, still looking horror-struck. “And please, tell Mr. Crowley that I’m sorry.”

            “I will, my dear. I will.”

 

* * *

 

And so, Aziraphale returns upstairs, feeling rather proud of his diplomatic abilities.

            Crowley seems grateful, if not a little disappointed that he doesn’t get to have petty vengeance on Martha. They go to dinner at a 5-star restaurant and share a bottle of rare, vintage wine at the bookshop afterward. Then they say their goodnights and Crowley returns home.

            Aziraphale spends the night reading and sipping cocoa from his angel mug.

 

* * *

 

Around 3 o’clock in the morning, Aziraphale notices the keys.

            A set of very familiar silver keys are resting on the cushion of Crowley’s usual chair, which has been empty for several hours now. Aziraphale can’t believe it until he goes over and examines them, but yes, they are. The Bentley keys.

            Confused and strangely disturbed, Aziraphale runs outside. Surely enough, the Bentley is still parked there – and no Crowley in sight.

            Aziraphale stands, stunned, gazing at the car.

            Crowley couldn’t have walked home. Well, he _could_ have, but he wouldn’t. He would never leave his precious car here by itself! This is highly irregular! What is going on?

            Aziraphale races inside and dials Crowley’s number. First his home and then his mobile, getting the same result. “Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.”

            _Beep._

Aziraphale puts down the phone and stares at the car outside, the keys in his hand, and gets a very odd, but undeniable sense that these two things were left behind by accident. Aziraphale magically locks up the shop as he marches toward the Bentley.

            It’s raining tonight and the vintage car’s black paint shines like new. Aziraphale gets in and starts the engine.

            He hasn’t got a clue what’s going on, but he does know two things:

  1. Crowley is—pardon the French—a dramatic bitch.



And 2. Crowley would never leave the Bentley behind. Doing so, on Aziraphale’s street, with the keys on the chair, screams only one thing: _“Come and find me!”_

* * *

 

Crowley’s flat looks different at night, more menacing – which is probably a feature Crowley admires. Needless to say, Aziraphale does not.

            He parks the Bentley safely in its spot and stows the keys in his pocket, marching inside with a snap of his fingers and a small miracle to get in the front door. The lights come on automatically, pinging and humming with a slightly ghoulish green glow.

            Aziraphale takes the lift up to the penthouse and immediately senses that something is wrong. His fears are confirmed when the doors slide open to reveal that Crowley’s front door is too. Hanging wide open on its hinges like it’s been kicked in.

            And the whole floor reeks of sage.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale enters carefully, peering around corners. The sage is so strong that even _his_ eyes are beginning to sting. But he doesn’t understand. Martha was so agreeable…

            Why would she do this?

            And _what,_ exactly, is this?

            Crowley’s study is in shambles. It was a surprise attack, that much is for sure. Because while there is definitely something Aziraphale doesn’t know about Miss Martha, he is 100% certain that she is human. And no human could take down a demon in a fair fight.

            And yet, there Crowley is. Laying on the floor.

            “No!” Aziraphale gasps, dropping down beside him. “Crowley?” He takes the demon’s pulse, to check whether his body is still…inhabited. The patter of a heartbeat is weak, but there – so, Crowley hasn’t discorporated yet. But he will, very soon. “Crowley? Crowley, wake up!” Aziraphale pats the demon’s cheeks, desperately trying to rouse him.

            Crowley moans, his head lulling to the side – and there, Aziraphale makes out a thin cut on his hairline, like he was struck over the head by something. A little more rattling from Aziraphale, and the demon’s yellow eyes flutter open.

            “Zira…fell?” Crowley mumbles, squinting up at him. “What…?”

            “I don’t know,” Aziraphale says, trying to pull him upright. “But we can’t stay here. This sage is going to kill you.” Crowley moans again as Aziraphale drags him to his feet, covering the demon’s mouth and nose with his sleeve.

            Stumbling together, they very nearly make it out the door.

            They are so close to escaping…

            Aziraphale doesn’t know what happens, but one second, he’s reaching for the lift buttons, and the next, he’s face-planting on the carpet as a shadow falls across him…

 

* * *

 

He wakes tied to a chair in Crowley’s study.

            Crowley is next to him, tied to another chair, with his head dangling against his chest. Aziraphale tries to call out to him, but there’s something in his mouth – a crude gag, made from a balled-up tee-shirt. Probably stopping him screaming for help. The only relief is that the sage smell has cleared considerably.

            And then the shadow is back. It falls across his lap before the person creating it steps into view.

            Martha.

            Except now, she’s wearing tight, black trousers, a black jacket, and a black beanie over her hair. And her eyes are dark. She steps closer to Aziraphale, her head cocked. She rips the gag from his mouth, throwing to the floor.

            “What are you?” she asks lowly. She has a gun.

            “Excuse me?” Aziraphale asks, his voice shaking just a little.

            “I said, what are you?”

            “I—” Aziraphale looks at Crowley, who very well may have discorporated already for how motionless he is. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”

            The flat of Martha’s palm makes a sharp _WHACK_ across Aziraphale’s cheek. It hurts, but not very much. More than anything, it’s loud. Loud enough to startle the unconscious demon behind her.

            “Don’t play dumb with me,” Martha hisses, baring her teeth.

            As the hand-mark on Aziraphale’s cheek reddens and wells up, Crowley blinks and slowly comes around. Aziraphale has never been happier to see those snakelike, yellow eyes staring at him in the dark. “Excuse me,” comes the demon’s drowsy, gruff voice.

            Martha whirls around with her gun, but Crowley doesn’t even flinch.

            “All obvious queries aside,” Crowley says, looking at the ropes on his wrists. “May I ask you a question, Martha?”

            “My name isn’t Martha.”

            “Oh, who cares, really?” Crowley grumbles. His expression is deadly flat, like a shark’s. Or a cobra’s. He leans forward as much as he can and quietly says, “Did you just _slap_ Aziraphale?”

            “Yeah,” Martha—or, apparently, _not_ Martha—boasts proudly. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

            Well, if you must know…

            “AH!” Not Martha shrieks as Crowley’s face transforms into a huge, snapping serpent. The girl stumbles in her fright and lands right on her bum on the hard, tile floor.

            Now, that’s pretty much all the power Crowley has left in him, but he still finds it tremendously funny and laughs directly into Not Martha’s face – a fact which terrifies and delights Aziraphale in equal measure.

            Not Martha, furious as a hornet, scrambles to her feet and presses the barrel of her pistol against Crowley’s forehead. “You son of a—”

            “All right, all right,” Aziraphale says soothingly. “Let’s all just stay calm.”

            “Shut up.” Not Martha digs the gun harden against Crowley’s head, but all he does is grin defiantly at her. “I’m the demon hunter, here. You—” She cuts an evil look toward Aziraphale. “—don’t tell _me_ what to do. The only reason you aren’t both _dead_ is because I have questions.”

            “All right, that’s fair,” Aziraphale relents, trying to be reasonable. “You have the gun. And the sage. And we’re tied to chairs. You’re the boss.”

            Not Martha frowns at him, but slowly lowers the pistol from Crowley’s head. She turns purposefully toward Aziraphale, circling him while he sits awkwardly in his chair, wondering how long he should wait to miracle the ropes off of his wrists. “What are you?” she demands again.

            “I’m a bookshop owner,” Aziraphale says. Across from him, Crowley rolls his eyes.

            “Yeah, I know. A.Z. Fell Book Seller in Soho.” Not Martha says, impressing Aziraphale. If nothing else, this young lady certainly does her homework. “But what manner of creature are you?”

            “Oh, that.” Aziraphale looks at Crowley, who shrugs tiredly. His expression says, who cares? Still, Aziraphale isn’t sure if it’s a good idea to tell her.

            “You’re not a demon,” Not Martha continues. “I’ve been hunting them since I was little. I know a creature from Hell when I see one. For instance, I knew your friend Mr. Crowley was a demon the moment I laid eyes on him at the market.”

            Now, this catches Crowley’s attention. “Sorry, did you say market?” he asks. “Because the first time we met was in the lift, just a few days ago.”

            The demon hunter smirks at him. “Maybe that was the first time _you_ saw _me._ But I’ve been tracking you all across London for weeks now.”

            “No, that’s not possible,” Crowley says, looking genuinely creeped out now. “If someone were watching me, I would know. I would sense it.”

            Not Martha looks particularly pleased, hearing that. “Like I said,” she remarks. “Been doing it since I was young. I’ve gotten quite good.” With Crowley officially weirded out, Not Martha rounds on Aziraphale again. “Which brings us back to you, Mr. Fell. What are you?”

            Aziraphale sits a little straighter in his chair as he chews the inside of his cheek. Should he tell her? Should he not? How would she react? His eyes trail down to the gun in her hand. He could easily miracle him and Crowley out of this situation, but the forces of Heaven and Hell would feel it. If a miracle this big doesn’t bring the angels and demons down on them, it will at least put Not Martha in their path. And, as much trouble as she is, Aziraphale doesn’t want her _dead._ And he gets a feeling she will be if Hell gets their hands on her…

            Licking his lips, he says, “Fine. I’ll tell you.”

            Not Martha nods, waiting.

            “Aziraphale,” Crowley warns. His voice is serious now, as is his expression. He’s staring at the back of Not Martha’s head, and Aziraphale can see the mistrust in his friend’s face. Everything about Crowley’s attitude has suddenly done a 180.

            “Go on. Don’t let him intimidate you,” Not Martha says, obviously misreading Crowley’s tone.

            Aziraphale takes a breath. “Very well.” He shifts, testing the strength of the ropes. “I am…an angel.”

            The demon hunter blinks. “Excuse me?”

            Behind her, Crowley tilts his head, watching her closely.

            “I said, I’m an angel,” Aziraphale repeats, waving his bound hands to put a bit more pizzazz into it.

            “An _angel,_ ” Not Martha says. “As in, heaven?”

            “Well…yes.”

            “No.”

            Aziraphale is confused. “What?”

            “I said, no.” Not Martha shakes her head. “Valiant effort, really. I’m impressed. Angel, that’s a new one – but no, try again, Mr. Fell. Angels aren’t real.”

            “What!” Crowley snaps impatiently. “Are you telling me you hunt demons for a living but you don’t believe in angels?” He looks absolutely flabbergasted. “That is _literally_ where demons came from in the first place!”

            Not Martha ignores him. “Besides,” she says. “Why would an angel be friends with a demon?”

            “Well, that’s actually quite a long story…” Aziraphale says, chuckling weakly. “6,000 years long, actually.”

            “Well, I don’t have 6,000 years,” Not Martha says. “I have class in the morning.”

            “Are you sure you’re not a witch?” Crowley asks, out of the blue. The demon hunter turns to glare at him.

            “What?” she asks.

            “A witch,” he repeats. “I didn’t think you were at first, but are you?”

            “No.”

            Crowley makes a very confused face. “Then how the _hell_ didn’t I sense you watching me!”

            Not Martha is visibly growing irritated by him. “I don’t know,” she says in a patronizing tone. “Perhaps you’re not as good as you think you are.”

            Crowley gapes at her, looking highly offended. Before he has a chance to say something that makes Not Martha kill him, Aziraphale jumps in.

            “I really am an angel, my dear,” he assures her. “And I can prove it.”

            She studies him. “How?”

            “Well…” He flexes his fingers. “Releasing me would help.”

            She snorts. “Nice try.” Then, she gestures to the ropes. “If you really are an angel, it should be no problem for you to escape those. Just conjure up a little _miracle._ ”

            “And—and normally, I would,” he says. “But, um, you see, I’ve recently had a little…ah, shall we say, _falling out_ with heaven and I don’t expect that drawing their attention at this moment would be, um, well, very wise.”

            Not Martha doesn’t look impressed.

            “Oh, for someone’s sake, angel, just do it. Let little Miss _you’re not as good as you think_ pick up the pieces if Heaven and Hell decide to pop in.”

            Aziraphale grimaces. “Are you sure?”

            Crowley shrugs. “There’s always Alpha Centauri,” he reminds him.

            “Very well…” Aziraphale snaps his fingers and he’s no longer sitting in the chair. He’s standing beside Crowley, who smiles up at him. In front of them, Not Martha jumps and spins around, eyes huge.

            “How the—”  

            “Told you so,” Crowley says, grinning.

            “But you were—”

            “Oh, come on,” Crowley says. “Surely, fighting demons all these years, you must’ve witnessed a little demonic miracle, if not the real deal.”

            Not Martha’s stare is pointed and razor-sharp. “No,” she says. “Most of the demons I encounter are rather dead before they get the chance to fight back.”

            “Oh, well, that’s very impressive. Really, good work,” Aziraphale says, sounding a bit like an over-eager camp counselor. “But I will have to insist that you not kill this _particular_ demon.” He gestures at Crowley, whose bindings fall into a pile on the floor.

            The demon hunter stiffens as Crowley stands up, rubbing his wrists. Not Martha raises her gun, pointing it at him. “Stay back!” she shouts. “Don’t move. Either of you.”

            Crowley rolls his eyes and snaps. Her gun disappears from her hands.

            As Not Martha tries to turn and flee, the door slams in her face. When she spins back around, Crowley is there, standing over her. She flattens against the door.

            “Oh, yeah,” the demon says, mostly to himself. “I really am that good.”

            “Crowley,” Aziraphale protests, striding up beside him. “You needn’t hurt the poor girl. She simply doesn’t understand.”

            Crowley gapes at Aziraphale. “She _smacked_ you!” he reminds him. “Oh, and she tried to kill us both!”

            “She hunts demons, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “The very demons who are currently hunting _you._ I say that having her out there, doing her job, means one more chance of you being safe from the forces of Hell.”

            While they’re busy arguing over Not Martha’s fate, the demon hunter is reaching into her coat pocket. Inside is her Fail Safe – a tiny, glass vial filled halfway with a clear liquid. She used to have gallons of the stuff, but it’s been harder to get her hands on it lately. What she has left is so diluted that it won’t even kill one demon.

            But it sure stings like a bitch.

            At the same moment Not Martha pops the cork, Crowley stiffens, possibly smelling the holy water, or maybe sensing it. He tries to jump out of the way, but the demon hunter is faster.

            She flings the vial’s contents on him then rips open the front door and sprints for the staircase beside the lift.

           

* * *

 

Steam erupts from Crowley’s skin as the holy water splashes him, and he screams.

            He folds in on himself, swearing and cursing the heavens as black blood drips from somewhere. For one, heart-stopping moment, Aziraphale thinks the holy water was pure. He stares at Crowley, feeling the world shattering around him, expecting to see the most important being in his entire life die before his eyes—

            But, no. By the Grace of the Almighty herself, the water was diluted.

            Crowley hunches over, swearing and hugging his burned arms, but remains alive. Aziraphale takes one step toward him, thinking only of helping his wounded friend, before he realizes that Not Martha has disappeared. And there’s a feeling…an… _opening_ feeling in the air, and the dark flats grows unnaturally bright.

            Aziraphale looks up in horror. “No,” he breathes. “Oh, no, oh, no…”

            Crowley, for all his agony, looks up too. “Oh, shit.”

            They’re coming.

            “Get up!” Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s arm, but he cries out, so the angel grabs him by the back of his jacket and bodily hauls him to his feet. “We have to go! Now!”

            For the second time in as many days, Aziraphale drags an injured, limping Crowley from his flat. “The Bentley is just downstairs,” he says, steering them toward the steps. “All we have to do is reach it.”

            “Ahh….” Crowley sucks air through his teeth. Steam is still rising from his wounds, and he’s leaving a thin trail of black blood behind him. The burns must be incredibly bad to draw blood. Aziraphale shoves the stairwell door open and ushers Crowley inside. Then, just as the light fades and two human figures appear inside the flat, Aziraphale performs one, last miracle.

            As the pair of angels charge out of the flat in search of the fugitives, the lift doors will be slamming shut. The number above the door will be descending, presumably containing an escaping angel and demon.

            The soldier-angels will bring the lift back up and, readying for battle, will open the doors expecting their quarry to be inside – only to find one very confused demon hunter, having no idea how she ended up in a lift…

            Okay, so maybe it was a spiteful miracle. But she really shouldn’t have burnt Crowley.

            Besides, it’s not like the angels will kill her.

            Probably.

 

* * *

 

They reach the Bentley.

            Crowley stumbles to it like he’s relieved to have it back, but his handprint leaves a bloody mark on the paint job. He painfully climbs into the passenger seat while Aziraphale starts the engine. Moments later, they’re peeling away to safety.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale doesn’t stop driving until they reach Nottingham.

            Then, he pulls into an empty car park behind a Tesco and reaches over to examining Crowley’s injuries. “Let me see,” he says gently.

            Crowley hisses, quite literally, but holds out his hands, and—

            _Oh._ They’re so bad.

            The palm of his left hand is no more than bloody gash, still weeping black onto the floor. The burns continue lashing over his wrists and forearms, bright-red welts glowing with heat and pain. And Crowley’s hands are still shaking.

            Aziraphale reaches to touch them—to heal them—but Crowley pulls back.

            “I’ll be gentle,” the angel assures him, but Crowley shakes his head.

            “You’ll bring them to us again,” he says, and even his voice is trembling. Aziraphale’s heart hurts to hear it. But he’s right. They got lucky escaping once. It won’t happen again.

            “But you’re in pain,” Aziraphale insists, his face twisted with sympathy.

            Crowley tucks his wounded arms close to himself and says, “I’ll live.” With everything that’s happened, his snake parts of his eyes have overtaken the human parts. He looks at the glovebox. “Would you—”

            “Yes, of course.” Aziraphale takes a pair of sunglasses out and carefully positions them over Crowley’s eyes. Afterward, the demon settles back, a bit more comfortably. Aziraphale has always known that Crowley was a bit self-conscious—even embarrassed—by his demonic eyes. And this only cements that belief.

            “Are you going to be all right?” Aziraphale asks. Even knowing how dangerous it would be, part of him still wants to say _to hell with it_ and heal Crowley.

            “Yeah.”

           

* * *

 

They sit in tense silence for a while, frankly unsure of where to go or what to do next. They had to blow London if they were to stay alive, but now they have no plan, no intel, and no place to stay. For all they know, the angels could be burning Crowley’s flat and Aziraphale’s bookshop as they speak.

            The sun is rising over the Tesco when Crowley looks around and says, “I see you found the keys.”

            “The what?” Aziraphale had mostly been lost in thought until now.

            “The keys.” Crowley nods his head toward the ones hanging from the ignition. “You found them.”

            “Ah, yes. You forgot them in my shop. Quite lucky too. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been there to stop that horrible girl from killing you!”

            Crowley is looking at the roof of the car. “Who says I forgot them?” He glances sideways at Aziraphale and, though he doesn’t smile or show any visible sign of mischief or emotion, Aziraphale immediately knows what he did.

            “You left them behind on purpose!” the angel gasps, sitting up straighter. “Why?”

            “I had a bad feeling,” Crowley confesses, letting his eyes shut. “Ever since the sage, I had a bad feeling about that one.”

            “You could have just told me that,” Aziraphale says disapprovingly. “Why turn it into something so complicated? What if I hadn’t found your keys? Or assumed you merely forgot them?”

            “I wasn’t sure,” Crowley says. “So, I didn’t bother you with it. Figured if nothing happened, you would return the car and no one would be the wiser. As for the other stuff—” He shrugs. “You know I would never _forget_ my Bentley. And I know you. I knew you would come. I trust you.”

            “Crowley…” Aziraphale says, maybe too warmly for having been annoyed with him a moment ago. That’s when he makes up his mind.

            He reaches for Crowley’s hands again and starts to heal them. And though the demon doesn’t pull away this time, he gives Aziraphale a questioning look.

            “What are you doing?” Crowley asks.

            Aziraphale looks seriously at him. “Let’s go to Alpha Centauri for a while,” he says, and Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up over the rims of his sunglasses. “It will throw heaven off our trail. They’ll go scouring the galaxy for us and we can quietly return to London. Besides…” Aziraphale adds. “I hear it’s beautiful this time of year.”

            It’s difficult to tell behind the glasses, but Crowley looks surprised and maybe even a little touched. He stares so deeply at Aziraphale—like he’s trying to read his mind—that even the angel, who had been feeling bold a minute ago, starts to feel warm in the face.

            But then Crowley’s mouth quirks up and all the uncertainty disappears. “It’s a date,” he agrees.


	6. Betrayed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here it is. Thanks so much for your patience, and thanks SO MUCH for everyone's support and kind comments. This was a blast to write.
> 
> I hope you enjoy and, God willing lol, I'll hopefully see you around in other Good Omens fics.

 

LONDON, 3 MONTHS BEFORE CROWLEY’S DEATH

* * *

 

It’s summer in London once again, and today the weather is perfect.

            The sky over St. James’s Park is as blue as the birds singing in the trees, the grass vibrant, and the air is crisp and fresh. It’s almost like the Almighty Herself has blessed this London summer day. And perhaps She has. After all, it was only ten years ago today that the conjoined efforts of Heaven and Hell were thwarted by an eleven-year-old boy from a small, English village. And if that isn’t exactly God’s sense of humor, then Aziraphale doesn’t know what is.

            Crowley is already there by the time he arrives, dressed all in black despite the warm weather, with his hands in his trouser pockets. He senses Aziraphale’s approach and turns his head slightly in acknowledgment. To anyone else, the subtle curve of the demon’s mouth would be indiscernible from any of his other expressions, but to Aziraphale, his smile is brighter than the sun.

            “Crowley!” Aziraphale says, opening his arms. The demon is, however, a demon – and therefore, not much of a hugger, but that doesn’t stop Aziraphale—who definitely _is_ a hugger—from wrapping Crowley in his arms. And Crowley, bless him, doesn’t even fight it.

            “Aziraphale,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses once the angel releases him. “Been a while.”

            “Why, yes,” Aziraphale says, still beaming. “Yes, it has been.” There are crinkles near his eyes, which twinkle with some adjective that is stronger than ‘happy’ and sweeter than ‘warmth.’ Some might call it love. “How’ve you been?”

            “Eh.” Crowley shrugs. “Same old, same old. And how was Paris?”

            “Oh, very nice,” Aziraphale assures him, then with a little note of something sadder, he adds, “I wish you could have seen it.”

            Crowley stares straight ahead, nodding. His mouth is a flat line, unreadable even to Aziraphale. “Any-who. Care for a walk?”

 

* * *

 

St. James’s Lake, like everything else on this beautiful mid-morning, is glittering and clear. Crowley and Aziraphale walk along its bank, ducks trailing behind them, waiting for crumbs of bread to drop into the water. All around them, young couples are reclining on towels with picnic hampers and parasols.

            Aziraphale has missed this, he realizes not for the first time since his return to England. Being in London, walking along this lake with…

He glances sideways at Crowley. Ever since that first half-smile, he has been pensive and unusually quiet. Near the end of the lake path is an ice cream cart. They stop, order their usual red lolly and vanilla with a flake. “Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks while they’re waiting.

Crowley hums mildly. “Course I am,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, you’ve just been rather…quiet today. That’s all.” True to his nature, Aziraphale tries to sound positive, like it’s a simple observation rather than something that has been genuinely bothering him. “Got something on your mind?”

And true to his nature, Crowley turns on the angel with a dark, tempting frown. “Why?” he asks. “Have you?”

Oh.

He knows.

            Suddenly, Aziraphale’s perfect, sunny day doesn’t feel quite so perfect and sunny. He wasn’t going to mention this yet. Not today, not after he hasn’t seen Crowley for nearly five years. He was planning to wait for a better opportunity…or maybe never. Never would have been good too.

            “Ahh…yes, now that you mention it…oh, thank you.” Aziraphale takes the vanilla cone and follows Crowley as he skulks off toward a tall, shady tree. “Please, try to understand—”

            “ _Understand?_ ” Crowley echoes, his voice shooting up an octave. One might think that being yelled at by a man holding an ice cream would be slightly less intimidating, but Crowley would be the one exception to the rule. “You could have been murdered!” Crowley hisses. “And I never would have been able to help because _you didn’t tell me!_ Five years of hearing _nothing_ from you and then I have to hear _this_ through the grapevine! That you’re working for Heaven again? Have you lost your mind?”

            “If I _had_ told you, you’d have come!”

            “And why is that bad?” Crowley demands.

            Aziraphale gapes at him. “Because it was _Michael,_ Crowley. She would have killed you.”

            Crowley, officially pissed off, throws his hands in the air and says, “At least we’d have faced it together. At least I would have had a choice.” Then, he truly surprises Aziraphale by turning and skulking away. Aziraphale calls after him, but the only reason Crowley stops is to give the angel one, last piece of his mind. “I had thought we were through with the lying and sneaking around, Aziraphale! I thought you had chosen your _side_.” He gestures to himself. Then, he says, “Go on, crawl back to Heaven. Never mind that they tried to end the world. Never mind that they tried to _kill_ you!”

            “Crowley!” Aziraphale calls again, but the demon doesn’t even acknowledge him. He just keeps walking until he’s gone from sight.

            Okay, so…maybe Aziraphale made an enormous mistake…

            It’s not like he didn’t already know that, though.

 

* * *

 

_LONDON, 5 YEARS EARLIER_

* * *

 

_“Paris?” Crowley asks lightly. He and Aziraphale are sitting in a little café in central London, tucked into an intimate corner table. It’s early afternoon and the light from the window above them shines right on Crowley like Heavenly grace. His hair and skin glow and, sometimes, Aziraphale swears he looks more angelic than demonic. The waitress brings their order: a cinnamon hot cocoa and chocolate biscotti for Aziraphale, and a black, iced coffee for Crowley._

_“Just for a few months,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll be back before you know it.” And he’s right – for beings who once barely saw each other every two or three hundred years, a few months is nothing. The beat of a moth’s wings._

_Crowley hums and sips his drink. “All right,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own, though? I mean, with Heaven on your trail and—”_

_“I’ll be fine, Crowley,” Aziraphale says gently. Then he frowns. “What about you? Have you heard any stirrings from Hell lately?”_

_“Nothing more than usual.” He waves the angel’s concern away. “Don’t fret over it. I’ll be fine. Go, enjoy your holiday.” Aziraphale smiles tightly against the lip of his mug. Then, Crowley stands and rolls his neck. “I should be going,” he says. “See you when you get back, angel. We’ll have lunch. Ciao.”_

_Aziraphale eagerly raises his hand to wave, but Crowley has already gone. Slowly, he lowers his hand and the nervous smile turns into a grimace. “See you…” he says quietly._

_“Well,” says a voice behind Aziraphale’s shoulder. He spins around to find a woman in a big, white hat sitting in the booth behind him. “What a relief. I thought your boyfriend would never leave.”_

_Aziraphale stiffens. “Michael,” he greets. “I thought I was meeting you in Paris.”_

_The archangel Michael turns to face him. Her expression is cool and unreadable as always. “That was the plan,” she agrees. “But I thought there were a few things we should discuss before arriving in France.”_

_Here’s what happened._

_A few days prior to Aziraphale and Crowley’s café meeting, Aziraphale received a Heavenly summons from the archangel Michael. She claimed that, while Aziraphale was still not in Heaven’s good books, the head office would be willing to consider a probation period if Aziraphale agreed to take on some heavy-duty work._

_She was talking about five or six blessings a day, including full-fledged miracles. It would be exhausting, potentially dangerous work – but if Aziraphale agreed, Michael guaranteed that the forces of Heaven would stop trying to kill him. They would even call off the man-hunt for Crowley, as well._

_See, ever since the Armageddon-that-wasn’t, the morale upstairs had been low. Really low. Previously loyal angels were started to question what their purpose was, if not to fulfill the Great Plan. Some had experienced severe existential crises; others had stopped working altogether._

_It was a grade-A nightmare in Heaven, and they needed all the available haloes they could get on Earth, fighting Hell._

_So, it came to Aziraphale._

_Obviously, Aziraphale had suspicions. It was a trap, he thought. Surely it was a trap. But then there was the proof that was right before his eyes: crime in London alone had skyrocketed the past few years. There were murders, bribes, affairs, and disasters all across the world – obviously the result of demons working un-thwarted by angels._

_Maybe Heaven really was in trouble._

_So, Aziraphale agreed to meet with Michael. She told him that there was a lot of work to be done in Paris. That the two of them would work together in the city so she could keep an eye on him. If the Paris job went smoothly, Aziraphale would be allowed to return to work wherever he pleased, with all the perks and angelic support he once had._

_And yes, Aziraphale knew Crowley would not be pleased to hear he was palling around with Michael. Which is why Aziraphale didn’t tell him._

_He felt sick—even dirty—lying to Crowley, but this was_ Heaven. _This was Aziraphale’s home, his family. He had to try, right? Surely, a few months in Paris couldn’t hurt – and Crowley didn’t need to know. Not right away, anyway…_

_Except, it wasn’t a few months. It was five years._

_Five years of blessings, miracles, and ignoring Crowley’s phone calls._

_“It’s to keep him safe from Michael,” Aziraphale continued to tell himself, but even as he pressed the ‘dismiss’ button on his phone, he knew the truth: he missed having a purpose. He missed helping people. And yes, he loved being with Crowley like this, in a way he has never been allowed to be before: honest, and warm, and_ together. _A team_ – _but at the end of the day, Aziraphale is an angel. And what is an angel without Heaven?_

* * *

 

LONDON, PRESENT DAY

* * *

 

And so, Aziraphale is back in London. His work in Paris is finally done and he’s back in Heaven’s good books (for the most part.)

            Problem is: he’s no longer in Crowley’s. And Aziraphale doesn’t really blame him. He was wrong to lie to him, even more wrong to ignore him for all that time. Five years is certainly not a long time for immortals, but Crowley was probably worried. And now that he’s angry, he’s liable to hold a grudge for quite a long time. When Aziraphale refused to give him holy water, he wouldn’t speak to Aziraphale for 100 years. How long will he stay angry now that he’s been thoroughly betrayed?

            Aziraphale walks back to his bookshop dejectedly. He had hoped that working with Heaven would make him feel better, safer, but all it’s done so far is ruin everything that matters.

            He walks inside A.Z. Fell Book Sellers and takes a deep breath of cedar and book-smell. Oh, how he’s missed it. He makes a beeline for the telephone without knowing that’s where he’s going, and his fingers dial Crowley’s number on instinct.

            It rings out before going to voicemail.

            “Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.”

            “Crowley,” he says, then bites his lip because he isn’t sure what to say. “Please, let me at least explain myself. I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be, but I’m sorry. Please, Crowley.” He waits a few beats, hoping in vain that his friend will pick up and give him a chance. When that doesn’t happen, Aziraphale sighs and says, “You know where to find me.”

            He sets down the receiver with a heavy heart.

 

* * *

 

LONDON, 2 MONTHS BEFORE CROWLEY’S DEATH

* * *

 

It’s eleven o’clock at night and Aziraphale is in his study. He has recently procured a genuine Gutenberg Bible and has been pouring over it all night, aided by cup after cup of cocoa. This is the third Gutenberg Bible he has in his collection, but every time he finds one, it’s like reading the Good Book for the first time all over again.

            Shortly after the clock strikes 11:15, Aziraphale senses a presence behind him. He whirls around, his heart racing, but the dark figure in the corner is anything but menacing. The angel sits up straight, his eyes wide.

            Crowley is lounging in his usual chair, legs crossed, leaning on his fist. His sunglasses obscure his eyes, but Aziraphale can see that something has changed since the last time they spoke – during their Big Fight in St. James’s Park.

            “Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice colored slightly with hope. His fingers drum nervously on the pages of his Gutenberg. “You’re here.”

            “So it would seem.”

            Silence hangs between them for nearly a minute while Aziraphale inwardly panics, trying to remember the script he rehearsed in case he got the chance to apologize. However, before he gets a chance, Crowley’s stiff posture deflates and he stands up.

            “Listen, Aziraphale,” the demon says, pulling off his sunglasses so he can pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m not happy. And I’m not going to pretend I understand why you did what you did, but we’ve been friends for 6,000 years. And I, for one, am not gonna let a record like that break just because of one, stupid decision.”

            Aziraphale’s mouth flaps wordlessly. “You—” he stammers, blue eyes wide and soft. “Does this mean you forgive me?”

            “Ah, ah, ah,” Crowley tuts, wagging his finger. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, angel. First thing’s first…” the demon leans in, eyes narrowed, and looking rather demonic in the darkest corner of Aziraphale’s study. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what the _hell_ you were thinking. And _then,_ ” he adds. “You’re gonna explain why you ghosted me for five years.”

            “Well, that’s…fair.” Aziraphale licks his lips. “But, um, I’m afraid it’s a bit of a long story.”

            Crowley doesn’t even blink. “I’ve got all night,” he says in a growling voice.

            Aziraphale swallows. “All right, then. Umm…tea?”

 

* * *

 

So, Aziraphale explains it as best he can: Michael’s offer of immunity, Aziraphale’s craving for work and purpose, how the jobs just started stacking up in Paris and how everything just became so _much,_ and especially how—and he stresses this many times—he didn’t want to involve Crowley because he feared for his safety where Michael was concerned.

            And, to his credit, Crowley sits silently and listens the whole time. Not one snide remark passes his lips for the entire duration of Aziraphale’s long-winded explanation/apology hybrid.

            Well, that is, until he’s finished.

            “You’re a complete moron, you know that?” Crowley says, causing Aziraphale to cough on his tea. But before the angel has a chance to ask what _that_ means, Crowley changes the subject. “Do you really trust them?” he asks, nodding toward the ceiling.

            Aziraphale sets down his tea cup. “I’m not sure,” he admits, feeling rather silly for saying so after such a long justification of his actions.

            But Crowley doesn’t get angry or call him stupid again, he just hums lowly and drums his fingers, deep in thought. “Do you think it’s a trap?” he asks after a moment.

            “If it is,” Aziraphale says, “then Heaven is playing the long game.”

            “Good point,” Crowley relents. Heaven is patient, but perhaps not _five years_ patient. If they had wanted to kill Aziraphale, they could just done it in Paris. “Well, then, I’ll leave you to your book.” But as he’s getting out of his chair, Aziraphale jumps to his feet.

            “Will you join me for lunch?” the angel blurts out. “Tomorrow? The Ritz?”

            Whether Crowley’s pause is for dramatic effect or for actual contemplation, Aziraphale can’t be sure – but he agrees, nonetheless. “Mmkay.”

 

* * *

 

LONDON, 3 WEEKS BEFORE CROWLEY’S DEATH

* * *

 

The first hint of trouble rears its head in early October.

            Aziraphale is back in his bookshop and working out of Soho like he used to, and actually, things are better than they ever have been before. He has his work—angelic and retail—and never has to see Gabriel, who is still a bit riled up about the whole _betrayal_ business. Mostly, Aziraphale operates through Michael. On top of that, he gets to see Crowley regularly, right out in the open.

            No more secret meetings, no more “arrangement,” and no more threat from Above. Just late lunches at the Ritz and splitting bottles of Champagne in the Bentley at night. He’s blissfully happy, and more importantly, Crowley seems to be too. It’s like those five years never happened.

            It’s almost perfect enough to convince Aziraphale that nothing bad could ever happen again.

            But then that day in early October rolls around and everything changes.

            It’s about noon and Crowley has just woken up.

The previous night, the two of them had drunken themselves into a stupor and passed out in the backroom of the bookshop, Aziraphale at his desk and Crowley on the sofa. When Aziraphale wakes, he finds the demon snoozing with his limbs spread out like a child’s toy that’s been thrown across the room. One, long leg is on the back of the sofa, the other on the floor, one arm over his chest, and the other over his eyes. His mouth is open and his sunglasses have fallen onto the carpet.

            Aziraphale picks them up and sets them on the table, smiling to himself. After that, he starts a kettle of tea and when he turns around, Crowley is just sitting up, blinking owlishly.

            “It’s morning,” Crowley realizes, his voice deeper than usual and slurred with sleep. The right half of his hair is sticking up in every which way and there are creases on his cheek that match the sofa’s fabric.

            “Yes, it is,” Aziraphale says. “Good morning.”

            Crowley’s face screws up. “I’m hungover,” he says.

            “Well, a nice cuppa will fix you right up.”

            Only then does Crowley actually turn to face him. “Tea? We are primordial entities,” he grumbles, eyes squinting in the light. “I could just… _miracle_ the hangover away.”

            “Yes, although a cup of tea is much nicer.”

            Crowley appears to think about it for a second before shrugging and staggering to his feet. He wanders over while Aziraphale takes down the milk and sugar, and rests his entire upper body on the row of counters in the angel’s tiny kitchenette. “Mmmm…” he hums, enjoying the coolness against his skin. Then a curious, yellow eye turns to Aziraphale. “How are you so damn chipper this morning?” he murmurs. “I think you drank more than I did.”

            Aziraphale, smiling pleasantly, says, “Well, I suppose it’s all down to body mass and whatnot. And I do tend to, um, consume more alcohol on a regular basis than you do, with all the…fancy restaurants I go to…” He clears his throat, and Crowley can tell there’s something he’s trying very hard not to say. “I guess it’s just, um, uh…”

            “Wait. Are you calling me a lightweight?” Crowley asks, eyes narrowed.

            “What?” Aziraphale feigns shock. “No! _Of course_ , not. I would never insinuate that—”

            “You are!” Crowley sits bolt upright, then regrets it as he sways. Still, he glares and gets right in Aziraphale’s face. He opens his mouth to give the angel a piece of his mind when the door bells jingle in the other room, and Aziraphale ducks away, half-fleeing. “This is not over, angel! Not by a long-shot!” Crowley yells after him.

            Aziraphale flees through the door into his shop. “So sorry about that,” he says, a bit winded as he shuts the door so his customer won’t have to hear Crowley’s complaining. “My friend and I were having a small disagreement. So, what can I do for you?” He turns, but freezes in place.

            The archangel Michael is standing in the middle of the shop, her arms folded behind her back. “Is that him in there?” she asks in an even tone, but her eyes are razor sharp. “Crowley?”

            Aziraphale is so surprised that he can’t even think of a convincing lie. Usually, he can sense when the archangel is near. Maybe he’s a bit more hungover than he thought. “Michael,” he says, positioning himself in front of the door. “What a…pleasant surprise.”

            She tilts her head, a small frown pulling down the corners of her puckered mouth. “I just popped in to tell you that there’s been a small change of plans.”

            “Change of plans?” Aziraphale asks, desperately grasping onto the new subject.

            “Yes. I had said that after Paris, you would be allowed to continue your work here in London, but as the demon Crowley is no longer a suitable challenge for you, as you have… _bonded._ ” She makes a disgusted face. “Head office is relocating you.”

            “Re…relocating?” Aziraphale echoes, his mind racing.

            “Yes.” A transparent, phone-shaped sliver of heaven materializes in Michael’s hand. She scrolls with her finger, reading, then stops and says, “Ah, yes. To…America, it seems. Washington DC. Hmm.” The archangel raises her eyebrows almost approvingly. “Should be absolutely abound with evil for you to thwart. You should be pleased, Aziraphale.”

            Aziraphale steps forward, wringing his hands. “Ah, yes, that’s—that’s very good, but, um, I don’t _want_ to relocate.” He tries to smile as he gestures around him, to his bookshop, his furniture, his cozy life. “I like London. I like how things are now.”

            Michael appraises him coolly. “Yes, I’m sure you do. But, unfortunately, if you wish to continue working with us, then you must actually _work._ And since London is the demon Crowley’s domain, then you must go elsewhere.”

            Aziraphale starts to protest, but Michael silences him with a wave of her hand.

            “You have until Friday to clean up your business in England. We want you hard at work in America by Saturday.” As the archangel turns to leave, the front door slams in her face, as if by someone’s will. She spins, wearing a mask of utter loathing. “ _How dare you?_ ” she demands, but Aziraphale is just as surprised.

            “It…wasn’t me,” he says.

            Michael turns to open the door, but startles and jumps back seeing Crowley – who is leaned casually against the bookshop’s only exit. He smiles, showing teeth.

            “Hell-o, Michael,” Crowley says cheerily. “How are we today?”

            The archangel takes several steps back, but stops between the demon and Aziraphale. Her whole body is tense, like she’s expecting to be attacked. “What is the meaning of this, Aziraphale?” she barks. “Tell your demon to back down or I _will_ call for backup!”

            “Crowley—” Aziraphale tries, but his friend speaks first.

            “Aw, come on, Michael. There’s no need for that,” Crowley says, standing up from the door. “We’re all pals here, right? I mean, sure, I’m a demon _now,_ but it wasn’t that terribly long ago that we were all…playing harps Upstairs, or whatever, remember?” While he speaks, Crowley boldly approaches Michael, step by step.

            “You are Fallen,” Michael reminds him bitingly. “You are no angel, _Crawly_.”

            “Oh, sure,” Crowley relents. “I’m not perfect. But, then again, neither are you.”

            “Crowley—” Aziraphale urges nervously.

            “What are you insinuating?” Michael demands.

            “Well, you—and most of the other archangels—tried to end the world, remember?”

            “That was part of the Great Plan, which _you two_ ruined!”

            “Maybe. But do you remember what you did _after?_ ” Now, Crowley is dangerously close to Michael. Either one of them could strike a fatal blow, should they dare to try. Although Crowley’s posture is much looser than Michael’s. Maybe she can sense that Crowley is stronger than she is. Or maybe she just feels outnumbered, between the two of them.

            Who would Aziraphale help, she must be wondering, if it came down to a fight?

            “After?” Michael says. “What do you mean, after?”

            “You worked with demons,” Crowley reminds her. He isn’t wearing his sunglasses, so Aziraphale can see the wickedness in those yellow, serpentine eyes of his. “And I’m sure that Gabriel, and Uriel, and Sandalphon all know you did that, but does _She_? Does the Almighty know that a member of her top brass has set foot in Hell, carrying a font of Her holy water?”

            Michael, who is practically shaking with rage now, spits, “You can’t tell Her! You’re a _demon!_ You have no way of speaking to our Lord!”

            Crowley doesn’t even blink when he says, “Don’t you dare assume to know what I’m capable of, Michael.” His voice is low and growling, but eerily calm. “I bathed in holy water, right in front of your eyes. I’m not _just_ a demon anymore, but I don’t think I need to tell you that.” He steps back and appraises Michael’s stiff posture with satisfaction.

            Her face is red and her hands in fists, but something shifts in Michael as Crowley speaks. After a moment, she says, “What do you want from me, demon?”

            Crowley smirks. “I want you,” he prompts, brazenly patting Michael’s shoulder. “And all your little haloed friends to leave Aziraphale the _hell_ alone. He works for you, but only when he feels like it. He has all the perks he once had, and there will be no more surprise visits, no more surveillance, no more threats, and he gets to live wherever he damn-well pleases. He’s a Principality, not some garden-variety angel. And although he doesn’t _need_ it, he is under my protection. _Capisce?_ ”

            Michael looks like she is going to explode. Her knuckles have actually turned white, but she doesn’t attack Crowley – or explode, for that matter. Much to Aziraphale’s guilty pleasure, Michael bows her head and takes a step back. “Understood,” she says lowly, like a child who’s just been scolded by her parent. “I’ll…relay that to the others in the Head Office.”

            Crowley flashes a toothy smile. “Please do,” he says. As Michael shoulders past him, he turns, still grinning, and says, “See you around, Wank-Wings!”

            Crowley laughs and then turns to Aziraphale. The delight on the demon’s face is clear as a bell, and almost infectious, but Aziraphale forces himself to be serious.

            “They won’t like that,” the angel warns him. “They already hated us for getting in the way of the Great Plan, but now it’ll be personal.”

            “Eh.” Crowley waves his concerns away. “They won’t retaliate,” he says. “Not if they think there’s a chance Mummy will be cross with them.”

            “I hope you’re right,” Aziraphale says.

            Crowley takes a breath and, a little more seriously, says, “So do I, angel.”

 

* * *

 

LONDON, 1 DAY BEFORE CROWLEY’S DEATH

* * *

 

Everyone dies. That’s just a fact of life.

            Perhaps that is why Death is the strongest of the Four Horsemen, and the only being in all of Creation who cannot die. For if he did, it would mean the end of all things. The stopping of the Eternal Clock. The crumbling of reality.

            Well, on this particular day in early November, Death is sitting on his throne in Hell. It is an imposing chair made of the bones of humans, rats, and even demons and angels, encircled by a ring of white hellfire. He is the last of the Horsemen to ride into the Apocalypse and, except for special occasions like the odd plague or natural disaster, Death stays in Hell.

            But on this day in November, Death lifts his head and looks Earthward, up toward the stalactites, and if his face had flesh, he would be smiling. For tomorrow will be a rare day indeed.

            Tomorrow, the demon known as Crowley, will die.

            And Death is going to be there, personally.

 

* * *

 

LONDON, 42 MINUTES BEFORE CROWLEY’S DEATH

* * *

 

Crowley hadn’t meant to start trouble, not really.

            And yes, that’s ironic because he’s a _demon_ and starting trouble is what demons _do._ But Crowley’s never exactly been the poster-boy for demonic duty, has he? The only memorable thing he ever did was tempting a woman into eating an apple – and the only reason _that_ got remembered was because she happened to be the _first_ woman.

            He feels a bit like a university student who got an A on his first exam and has just sort of coasted through the rest of the course. Demons 101, that is. And, for the record, he’s still failing.

           

* * *

 

What he said to Michael, he said for two reasons.

  1. Michael’s a wanker, and
  2. Michael was threatening Aziraphale.



Maybe the threat wasn’t explicit, but it was there – in the archangel’s posture, in her voice, in her eyes… And, sure, Crowley may be failing Demons 101, but he’s still got black wings and serpent eyes. He can smell violence and bloodlust a mile away – one of the perks of being Fallen: you can always tell who hates you. And no matter what Michael’s pretty words say, she hates Aziraphale. And their little “arrangement” wouldn’t have worked out for much longer anyway.

Still, Aziraphale seems worried.

Currently, he’s pacing Crowley’s study (Crowley’s because after Michael’s intrusion, they thought it safer to evacuate for bit in case of retribution.)

“I know you meant well—” Aziraphale is saying.

“I didn’t _mean well._ Michael’s an arse. I just wanted to see her squirm,” Crowley lies as he rests his feet on the top of his desk, cleaning the lenses of his glasses.

“—but I wish you would have been…gentler.”

“Gentler,” Crowley scoffs, placing the dark glasses back on his nose. “Listen, Aziraphale, archangels are a bit like demons. The only language they understand is violence.”

Despite everything, Aziraphale looks offended. “That is not true!” he argues, defending angels in general more than the archangels, Crowley is sure.

“They tried to end the world, angel,” Crowley reminds him.

“Well, yes, but—” He stops suddenly, and Crowley lazily lifts his head, his brow creasing when he sees the faraway look on Aziraphale’s face.

“Something wrong?”

“Something just…happened. In Heaven,” Aziraphale says. His voice shakes a little when he speaks. “I felt the angels stir.”

Crowley sits up a little straighter. “Good stir or bad stir?”

Aziraphale’s alarmed blue eyes flash to him. “It felt like a call to war.”

“Oh.” The demons licks his lips and tries not to panic. He puts his feet on the floor. “War against who, I wonder.”

The blinding flash answers Crowley’s question.

In the blink of an eye, his flat is overrun with angels in full battle armor. Among them are Sandalphon, Gabriel, Uriel, Ramiel, and—of course—Michael. The angels surge around Aziraphale, the traitor, and wrestle him to his knees.

“AZIRAPHALE!” Crowley yells.

Surprisingly, no one moves to secure Crowley. It’s like they don’t care about him at all. The only time they even acknowledge his presence is when he rushes forward to help Aziraphale, and is met by the point of a celestial blade pressed against his throat.

Celestial silver is not as potent as holy water, but its touch still burns. Crowley shocks and jumps back, his skin smoking.

“Stay back, demon,” Michael warns him. “We’ll come to you shortly. But first…” She turns back to Aziraphale, but leaves her sword leveled at Crowley. “Justice.”

“Michael—” Aziraphale says, his face twisted with confusion and terror. “What is this?”

The coolness of Michael’s expression is fit for a demon. And try as he might, Crowley cannot imagine wearing a face like that when Aziraphale looks so scared. These angels must have no heart whatsoever.

“Heaven made a mistake in letting you live, Aziraphale,” Michael says. “We see that now.” She takes one purposeful step closer and the other angels part around her like the red sea. Behind Michael, Crowley is tense, his eyes flashing. Aziraphale can see that he’s waiting for an opening – any chance to jump in and do something amazing.

 _Please, don’t,_ Aziraphale silently wills him.

“You plan to kill me?” Aziraphale asks Michael. “Why?”

“For consorting with a demon,” Gabriel speaks up. He does not look as calm as Michael. In fact, he looks livid. Impatient. He wants it done already. “You betrayed each and every one of us, Aziraphale. You betrayed Heaven. You betrayed the Great Plan. And, most damning of all, you betrayed the Almighty, Herself.”

“But you also consorted with demons,” Crowley reminds the lot of them. A half-dozen heads swivel in his direction, and once he has their attention, Crowley says, “You tried to execute us once before, remember? And how well did that work out for you?”

The angels look furious, but it’s Michael who acts. Brandishing her celestial silver sword, she strides toward Crowley – and to his credit, the demon doesn’t back down even an inch. Not even when Aziraphale tries to stumble to his feet and gets shoved back down, not even when his friend cries out, “Crowley, please!”

He and Michael are eye to eye now.

“Let us go,” Crowley says. It’s not a plead, it’s a command.

“Why should I?”

The demon tilts his head. “Are you daft?” he asks, and Michael grits her teeth. “Have you already forgotten a particular conversation we had a few weeks ago? Concerning you, and Hell, and God?”

But this time, Michael isn’t going to be intimidated. “Go on, then,” she says lowly. “Call up the Almighty. Tell her what I did.”

Crowley hesitates.

“Go on,” Michael says through bared teeth. “Show us what you can do, demon.”

“All right…” Aziraphale sees his friend swallow, and their eyes meet for a fraction of a second and he can see the wheels turning in Crowley’s head. The angel braces himself. He doesn’t know what he’s planning, but it’s got to be big.

Crowley breathes and then thrusts his hands into the air, letting out a shout of exertion as time slows to the speed of molasses, then finally ticks to a stop.

In the next instant, the world is white and empty.

Aziraphale deflates, stretching his wings, and Crowley hurries to his side, pulling him up.

“Are you all right?” Crowley asks him, standing back to check him for injuries. His own wings, huge and black as night, fan out above him.

“I’m fine.”

“Good, because we’ve only got seconds.” Already, Aziraphale can see Crowley tiring. Stopping time is like that, unfortunately. Very exhausting. “We have to go, angel. Somewhere. Anywhere. You pick.”

“They’ll find us,” Aziraphale says. “Anywhere we go, they’ll find us.”

“So what!” Crowley argues, his brow beginning to sweat with the strain. “It’ll buy us time. That’s all we can hope for now. Where do you want to go? Paris? Glasgow? The moon?”

Aziraphale is shaking his head. Part of it is shock – being overwhelmed by the sudden betrayal. Another part is sorrow. Sorrow for Heaven, who has spun out of control in its thirst for revenge. Sorrow for the Almighty, whose own soldiers are fighting like children. And sorrow for Crowley – whose gotten himself caught in the middle of it.

“Please, angel,” Crowley says, grabbing his hands. It shocks Aziraphale enough to at least listen. “I know you’re scared, and I know you’re sad for Heaven. But right now, we have to worry about ourselves. Once we’ve got ourselves safe, we can work out a way to fix the other stuff.”

Aziraphale stares at their joined hands. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little…” He shakes his head as if to clear it. Aziraphale looks up and meets Crowley’s eyes.

At the very same moment, a blade tears through Crowley’s chest.

The white world flickers like a dying lightbulb, and Aziraphale watches in horror as Crowley looks down, sees the blade, and understanding dawns on his face.

“NO!” Aziraphale cries.

Time starts to tick. A flock of doves explode out of the tree outside, startled by his shriek. Crowley’s knees buckle. The angel thinks he hears him whisper, “Aziraphale…” as he falls.

They sink to the floor together.

Michael takes a step back and cleans the blade of her sword on her trouser leg. Her icy-cool expression never breaks, even for an instant.

The other angels move away.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, trembling. “Crowley? Crowley? Oh, God, please…”

But Crowley doesn’t move, or speak, or even breathe. He lays in Aziraphale’s shaking arms, eyes half-open but unseeing.

Dead.

Not just in body, but completely. Destroyed with celestial silver.

“It was quick,” Michael offers, as if that should be a comfort. “The demon did not suffer. That, in itself, is a mercy. Hell would have done much worse.” She doesn’t know—no one does—but Death is standing behind her, guiding her sword. The Horseman isn’t smiling - mostly because his face is bare-bone, but he looks on in satisfaction.

Aziraphale clutches Crowley against him, burying his face in his hair. It smells like him – slightly smoky, like a far-off campfire, mixed with high-end cologne (Axe, but grown up) and something distinctly sweet – almond?. Maybe that seems very specific but Aziraphale has had 6,000 to learn that scent. He knows it better than any other.  “Please,” he prays, his eyes beginning to sting. “Please, Crowley. Just one more demonic intervention, please. One more surprise. I beg of you…”

But Anthony Crowley isn’t in at the moment.

Please leave a message after the tone.

.

.

.

_Beep._

 

* * *

 

SOMEWHERE, THE EXACT MOMENT OF CROWLEY’S DEATH

* * *

 

Crowley did not expect death to be like this.

            He isn’t sure _what_ he expected death to be like for a demon. Emptiness? Nothingness? Demons don’t have souls, so he always assumed that they simply evaporate into the universe, gone forever like they were never there. But the moment he feels the blade go in, and he sees the horror in Aziraphale’s eyes, a little light starts to blind him.

            It’s _right_ in the corner of his eye, like when you’re night-driving and a car with its high beams on is trying to pass you. It’s _right_ there, but he can’t see quite see it.

            He looks down because his chest is really starting to hurt, and that’s when he sees the unmistakable shine of celestial silver, poking through his ribs.

            _Bloody Heaven,_ he thinks.

            Aziraphale is still holding his hands, he realizes, and as he starts to feel himself slipping away, and he sees the shine of unshed tears in his angel’s eyes, whatever piece of heart Michael’s sword left untouched seizes with pain.

            “Aziraphale,” he says, but he doesn’t get anymore out before he feels himself being… _dislodged._

            If you can, imagine yourself standing there with your best mate, minding your own business. I don’t know what you’re doing, use your imagination. Texting? Watching _Tik-tok?_ Whatever. Then, all of a sudden, a _giant_ vacuum-hose descends overtop of you. Then God hits the _ON_ button _,_ and suddenly, you’re flying straight up in complete pitch-blackness like a biscuit crumb, wind screaming past your face, and you’re blind and you can’t move and—to be honest—you’re a bit terrified. Okay, _a lot_ terrified.

            That’s what happens to Crowley – except without the vacuum hose. Oh, and his body gets left behind.

            Next thing he knows, his rocket-speed upward dive comes to an abrupt halt and he lands jarringly on his feet – which he on longer has. His metaphysical feet. Smoky-ghosty feet.

            He looks around but the universe is totally black. No stars. No planets. No bookshops.

            Empty. All except for a light fog that rolls over his feet like waves. A chill runs up his spine and he turns.

            “You,” he says, surprised that he still has a voice.

            Death’s socket-eyes study him under his flowing hood. “Crowley,” the Horseman greets. “Welcome.”

            Crowley looks around some more. “Where…are we? I didn’t think there was life after death for us immortals.”

            “Oh, there isn’t,” Death says. “This is your last stop, Crowley. But consider yourself lucky. Most demons don’t even get a chance to go on this long after being killed.” If it were possible to grin devilishly without skin, Death would be doing it. “I just wanted to be the last to see you go.”

            “Aw,” Crowley says, placing a hand over his…non-corporeal heart. “How sweet.”

            But Death is strangely unaffected. “So, go on, then,” he prompts. “Get on with it.”

            “On with…what exactly?”

            Death leans in. “Beg,” he says.

            Crowley’s eyebrows go up. “Beg?”

            “For your life,” Death clarifies. “And don’t feel ashamed. Everyone does it.”

            “Ohh, _that’s_ why you booked me this one-way ticket to the top of the universe,” Crowley says, hands on his hips. “Well, that’s very sweet of you, Deathy, to think of me like that, but…pass.”

            “Pass?”

            “Well—” Crowley opens his arms like a shrug and gestures around to the vast emptiness around them. “Sorry, dear, but I’ll let you in on a secret.” He leans forward, conspiratorially, and despite himself, Death does too. “I’m a _shit_ demon,” Crowley admits, smirking. “Still got faith, I’m afraid.” He shrugs again, and maybe most of his bravado is for Death’s sake – so the Horseman won’t see him weak or pathetic. After all, Crowley _has_ dignity. “So, if She says it’s my time, then it’s my time.”

            Death is outraged. “What!”

            Crowley just goes on smiling.

            “But you _have_ to beg!” Death roars. “Everyone does!”

            “Not me.”

            And then Death plays the one card he has left – his ace. “What about Aziraphale?”

            And Crowley stills. His smile falls away. “What do you mean, Aziraphale? What about him?”

            “You’re leaving him alone, surrounded by enemies. He’ll die if you don’t go back and help him. He’ll be murdered by his own family and his last moments will be in betrayal, and sorrow, and grief, and _guilt._ ”

            Crowley glares at Death. It’s a trap. Death will never send him back to help Aziraphale, no matter how much he begs. He can’t. He’s _Death,_ not _Life._ He can only reap. “Shut up,” he growls. “Just shut up and send me on my way so I don’t have to look at you anymore.”

            At the same time, Crowley feels something in the soles of his feet – like the earth is rumbling, only he isn’t on Earth anymore, and he doesn’t have feet.

            Death doesn’t seem to notice. “You never told him, did you?” he continues. “How you _felt._ How you lov—”

            “Shut _up._ ” The rumbling is growing stronger now. He can feel it in his non-corporeal teeth.

            “You swore to yourself that you would protect him for all eternity,” Death says mercilessly. “But, in your final moments, you have _failed_ him, Crowley! You have let Aziraphale be murdered because your pride keeps you from begging! BEG, Crowley! BEG for you life and I will send you back to save him!”

            Furious, Crowley lifts his hand to flash Death a crude gesture when a blinding spotlight drops on top of him.

            It’s so bright, and hot, and _loud_ that the demon yelps and cringes all the way to the floor.

            “NO!” Death screams at the light. “YOU CAN’T! HE’S A _DEMON!_ ”

            But the light is unflinching. It pours over Crowley, and once the initial shock is over, it feels…nice. Warm, familiar…

            Slowly, he rises to his feet, and stares upward – _into_ the light.

            “No…” he whispers to himself. “No way…”

            Crowley looks back at Death, wide-eyed with shock. The Horseman dissolves a second later, along with the rest of the black emptiness.

 

* * *

 

CROWLEY’S FLAT, FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER HIS DEATH

* * *

 

Aziraphale has never killed.

            Not in the more than 6,000 years of his life – not an animal, nor an insect, nor vermin. “Love all things,” that is what the Almighty said. That was the overarching Message. And that is the code Aziraphale has tried to live by since the Beginning.

            _Love all things._

            But, Aziraphale is a Principality – the highest order of angel, above even the archangels. Guardian of the Eastern Gate, entrusted by God Herself with the flaming sword and the Apple Tree. And although Aziraphale has never once pulled rank, or even reminded the other angels of his status and power, quietly living his life here on Earth, Aziraphale is a Principality.

            And Aziraphale has never killed.

            Until today.

 

* * *

 

SOMEWHERE? I GUESS?

* * *

 

“Hello, Crowley.”

            The voice is smooth, and gentle, and so painfully familiar that Crowley stops breathing for a moment after it fills his ears. He hasn’t heard it for more than 6,000 years. Not since his Fall. The voice of his Mother.

            He turns.

            God is standing in front of him, wearing a warm smile and a grey pantsuit. And she’s as beautiful as he remembers.

            “Mother…” he whispers before he can stop himself. But truly, he feels like a child – although he has never been one.

            God’s smile turns almost fond. “You always did call me that,” she says.

            “What…” Crowley looks around. He didn’t notice until now, but he’s in a huge room with white-tiled floors and no discernable ceiling, adorned with white furniture, and glass, and marble, and silver decorations. It’s all very clean and sharp.

            If you turned it all black and grey, Crowley realizes, it might look somewhat like his flat. There’s even a globe on the desk and a row of houseplants against the back wall.

            “What is this?” he asks, breathless.

            God gives him a peculiar look. “What do you mean?” She asks. “It’s Heaven.”

            Crowley balks and takes a step back. “Heav…” He turns in a slow circle, the oldest emotions he thought he forgot welling up all over again. “Heaven?”

            “Yes, Crowley.” God approaches him and, despite himself, he jumps back.

            The last time he saw Her, she cast him out of Heaven into a pool of boiling sulfur.

            His fear seems to sadden Her. She stops and lowers her hand, which she meant to place on his shoulder. “If I had known,” she says. “I would not have sent you away.”

            “Known what?” he croaks, and he can’t believe this is happening. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s a dream, or a hallucination created by Death, or—

            “That you still held such faith in me.”

            “Oh.” Crowley swallows. He feels… _strange._ Awkward, and _so_ sad, and angry, and bitter, but also happy. He never thought he would see this place, which was his home for so long, ever again. “I only said that to piss Death off,” he says, and although it’s partly true…it’s partly isn’t too.

            God gives him a look like she knows that, though. Of course, she does. She’s God.

            Then she must already know what he’s thinking _now_ too. “How could you?” he snarls, brazenly marching closer. “ _All_ I ever did was love you!” he yells. “ _All_ I _ever_ did was try to be a good angel! Even now! Even _now,_ I _try_ to be good! But because I asked _questions,_ and hung around with _Lucifer,_ you DAMNED ME!” Crowley’s voice breaks on that last bit, but he refuses to cry.

            He refuses.

            “Crowley,” God says, and despite all his rage and all his hurt, he quiets down and listens. It’s Her. It’s always Her. Her presence, her voice. She’s calming. “I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but nothing I do is without purpose,” She says. “And nothing I do is out of spite.” At the look he gives Her, She sighs. “Not entirely,” She relents. “There is a Plan. And you…” Finally, she places the hand on his shoulder, and he feels _warmth._ All-encompassing warmth so deep he shivers and shuts his eyes. “…you, Crowley, are a part of it.”

            “Are?” he asks, contentedly. “But I’m dead. How can I be a part of your Plan if I’m dead?”

            When God next speaks, he can hear a grin in her voice. One thing most people might not know about Her is that she _loves_ to be unexpected. “ _Are_ you, though?” She asks.

            “What?”

            But he can no longer feel Her narrow fingers resting in his hair, and Heaven suddenly smells a lot like Hell – like fire and death.

            Crowley opens his eyes and blinks.

            Michael is laying beside him, dead as a doornail. Eyes burned out of her head, still smoking as a matter-of-fact.

            Classic angel smite.

            He sits up, numb and confused. Is this another dream, or another reality?

            He’s in his flat, surrounded by dead angels. Only one is still standing – a white-haired angel with his back turned to Crowley. Aziraphale is standing over Uriel, the last to die at his hand. He’s breathing hard, obviously exhausted, but Crowley has never seen him look so…

            Frightening.

            Slowly, Crowley stands up. “Aziraphale?” he asks, half-tense.

            The angel jumps and turns. At first, he stares right through Crowley, like he doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing. And it takes him a good, long while to process it once he does. A hundred different emotions flash across Aziraphale’s face in the span of a minute.

            Confusion, joy, denial, sadness, back to joy, and finally settling on caution.

            “Crowley…?” Aziraphale asks. His voice is gruff like he’s been screaming. “Are you here?”

            “I…” Crowley looks down at himself. He flexes his fingers, and his wings, and says, “I think so.”

            “But you were dead. I _saw_ you—”

            “I know.” Maybe they should both be happier, but this is unprecedented. Crowley was dead, that much is sure. And now he’s back. That’s only ever happened the One Time and humanity turned it into a whole Big Thing, and now they wear crosses and go to church every Sunday because of it.

            Crowley, totally overwhelmed, decides the safer thing to think about right now is the state of his flat. Namely, the dead angels everywhere. It is going to be _Hell_ getting these stains out of the carpet! “What happened here?” he demands, perhaps a bit crudely.

            Aziraphale looks wretched. “You were dead!” he cries like it’s a justification. “Crowley, you were _dead._ They _killed_ you!”

            And perhaps it should be obvious, but only then does it register in Crowley’s mind. “Did _you_ kill them, angel?” he gasps, scandalized. Yes, it’s terrible, and yes, it’s an atrocity of biblical levels, but also consider…Crowley is a demon, and Michael (and most of her lot) were wankers.

            So, he’s surprised at Aziraphale, but also…who the bloody Hell cares?

            “I…well, I…you were…they…” Aziraphale stammers, going red and nervous. “HOW ARE YOU ALIVE!”

            “God,” Crowley says simply and Aziraphale blinks. “She brought me back.”

            “ _God? She_ brought you back?”

            Crowley nods.

            “Well, I don’t—I…what…” Aziraphale is so stunned he doesn’t notice Crowley walking over to him. Not until the demon takes his hand—much the way he did before he was killed—and presses a kiss to the angel’s knuckles.

            Aziraphale quickly stops talking after that. Stops breathing too. And moving. In fact, he turns almost statuesque.

            Although he does very much look like someone screaming very, very loudly on the inside. Oh, and his face has gone rather red, like an apple.          

            “Lunch?” Crowley asks.

            Aziraphale, who is frozen in place, finally closes his mouth. “Ah—um…” He very much looks like he’s trying to say something, but his eyes keep flashing to their connected hands like they’re a bomb about to explode. “But it’s…” He finally tears his gaze away long enough to look at the clock on the wall. “Eight in the evening.”

            Crowley shrugs. “It’s lunchtime somewhere.”

Aziraphale swallows, but he relaxes just a hair. “Well, I…am a bit…peckish…” he admits.

            The corner of Crowley’s mouth turns up. “So am I.”

            Slowly, they lower their hands and, although Aziraphale still has a thousand questions and even more concerns, he stares—pink-faced and wearing a perplexed smile—as Crowley turns and carefully steps over Michael’s body. His front door is already open, so he stops and gestures to Aziraphale.

            “After you, angel.”

            Aziraphale makes an _oop!_ noise and hurries after him, being very careful not to step on Sandalphon’s hand.

            “What was that restaurant we went to back in ’03? The Indian one?” Crowley wants to know. He’s referring to 503 AD. India was having quite a good time during the 6th century.

            “Oh! Yes, that was quite an excellent place! Although I’m fairly sure it’s closed down now…”

            “Ah, shame. Their aloo gobi was to _die_ for.”

            “I know. Oh, yes! But do you remember that wonderful, little place in Stockholm? The one with the delightful Brotzeitbrettl? We went there in 1425, I believe. It’s still open!”

            “ _No!_ ” Crowley gasps in disbelief. “Zum Franziskaner? It’s been open for 600 years?”

            “Yes! Same menu and everything!”

            “Wow,” Crowley mutters, truly amazed. “There’s a place that needs a facelift…”

            As they’re leaving, Aziraphale stops quickly just inside and snaps his fingers. Crowley peers behind him to find his flat sparkling clean – no dead angels or anything.

            “Aw, thanks angel,” he says, grinning.

            “My pleasure, my dear.”

 

* * *

 

Above, God sits in Her sparkling office and smiles while She sips champagne.

            There really _is_ a Plan. Or, at least, there used to be. And She still plans on fulfilling it, but maybe not for a while. She’ll give them another few hundred years, She thinks. Give them a chance to breathe for a while.

            Breathe, and eat Bavarian food in Sweden. After all, the world is still young and She’s not going anywhere. No need to rush things.

           

           

 

 

 

 

           

           

           

             

 

           


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